


Diamond in the Rough

by Slovenskych



Series: Diamond in the Rough [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: A shit-ton of backstory, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Baltic states - Freeform, Caucasus OCs, Central Asia OCs, Cold War, Drama, Enemies to Friends, Estonia as the detective, Family, Friendship, Gen, German Brothers, Gulag camps, Historical Hetalia, Holocaust, Holodomor, Human OC - Freeform, Latvia just being precious, Lithuania's character development makes you cry, M/M, Mystery, Prussia as the mystery, Russia as the villain, SO many history notes, Sexual Assault, Soviet Union, Torture, Toxic Relationship, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:21:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 34
Words: 218,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26365636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slovenskych/pseuds/Slovenskych
Summary: The year is 1952, the last full year of Joseph Stalin's rule over the Soviet Union. After an incident with Latvia, Estonia is determined to find out what Russia did to him. And so unfolds a chain of events that would lead the Baltic States to tears, to forgiveness, to unexpected courage and horrifying discoveries about the mysterious past of Gilbert Beilschmidt. Final edited version!
Relationships: Baltic States & Russia, Estonia & Latvia & Lithuania (Hetalia), Eventual/subtle Estliet, Prussia & Baltic States, Prussia & Germany, Russia/Lithuania
Series: Diamond in the Rough [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1986484
Comments: 35
Kudos: 82





	1. Уведен — Taken

_Eduard von Bock_  
_Moscow Kremlin_  
_Moscow, USSR_

_Braginskaya, Katerina Olegivna_  
_House of the Council of Ministers of the Ukrainian SSR_  
_Kiev, USSR_

_January 1, 1953_

_Dear Katyusha,_

_Happy New Year! I must admit, I was mildly dismayed when your brother announced he would not be inviting you to Moscow for a New Years' celebration. I'm uncertain if he provided you with a reason, but I suspect it may have to do with some unusual events that took place at the mansion two weeks ago. I was hoping to discuss it with you on New Years', but it seems that for the time being a letter will have to suffice._

_You may well know, that I have never considered myself as one who makes friends quickly, nor as someone who prefers chaos to silence. It would be an understatement to say the events of two weeks ago were nothing short of a disaster, during which I longed for the (comparatively) serene lifestyle I'd become accustomed to since the war's end._

_But now that I have finally been granted my wish, and the mansion is quiet again with no undue interruptions or crises_ _…_ _I find myself despising the silence. Furthermore, I fear that I have lost a dear friend_ _—_ _one I became acquainted with no less than two weeks ago._

_I'm sure you have received word of the upcoming meeting, and I look forward to seeing you there. So much has occurred in the last two weeks, that I can scarcely imagine what 1953 will bring. But I have hope_ _—_ _if only a figment of hope_ _—_ _that life in the Soviet Union is going to change for the better._

_I hope you are faring well, and that you have safe travels to Moscow._

_With affection,_  
_ESSR_  
_Eduard von Bock_

**Two Weeks Earlier**

The smooth glide of fountain pen ink on paper jolted at the sound of shattering glass. Eduard cursed as the black liquid blotted onto the document; now the higher-ups would think him an incompetent secretary. The desk shook with a thud that reverberated through the floor, and a cry of pain rang through the halls. The pen clattered to the desk, chair scraping against the wooden floor as Eduard leapt to his feet and raced into the hallway. He would recognize that voice anywhere.

"Raivis?" he called, glancing through the corridors.

Slick mahogany floorboards stretched into dimly lit halls, sunlight reflecting the snow through red curtains that danced to the hum of the indoor heater. The entryways crisscrossed with traditional carvings were wide enough for Eduard to peer through as he passed. He walked by a dining room, a piano room, and a small library before he came upon the source of the crash.

The room was meant for display rather than use; a circular tea table stood in the center, and on the far wall, glass-doored cabinets filled with priceless china. Eduard's eyes swept across the floor to take in the toppled stepladder and scattered shards of porcelain, white chinks quivering from the fall.

A small moan escaped the boy sprawled across the floor. He wore a maroon colored uniform that had been tailored for his small size—even so, it seemed bulky and stiff on his thin form, a sign he had lost weight since it was fitted. He muttered to himself in a language Eduard didn't understand, thin fingers curling into fists as he pushed himself up with shaking arms.

"Is everything alright?"

The boy's head shot up, and a bright pair of violet eyes met Eduard's. The color was striking, but they were sunken into his skull with dark patches beneath them. Caramel ringlets hugged his round face, a thick mop of hair that was impossible to tame.

"I-I—I'm fine."

Eduard took a step towards his little brother. "Here, let me help—"

"NO!" Raivis shouted, scrambling to his feet so fast that his back hit the cupboard. It shook with the faint rattle of dishware. He forced a wavering smile, "I—I-I mean, no, thank you, I can do it myself."

A shimmer caught Eduard's eye, and he looked down to see dark blotches on the floor. "Are you… bleeding?"

"Huh?" Raivis followed Eduard's gaze and outstretched his hand to reveal bright crimson smeared across the creases in his palm.

"That looks bad." Eduard stepped forward to get a better look, but Raivis snatched his hand away and shrank back against the cabinet.

"It's nothing, just a scratch! It really doesn't hurt; nothing a bandage can't fix and I definitely know where to find those! You should probably go back to work, those piles of paperwork are getting lonely without you, haha…”

Eduard knew his brother rambled when he was nervous, but this was ridiculous. "Do you smell that?"

"What? No, I don't smell any— _ah!"_

Eduard grabbed the collar of the boy's uniform and yanked him forward. He took a deep whiff and was overwhelmed with a scent that was all too familiar.

"You've been drinking."

Nervous laughter flitted through the air like a wounded songbird. "What? Me? Drinking? No, you have it all wrong, you see I was actually drinking—uh… _tea!_ So there's really nothing to worry about—"

Eduard's eyes hardened. "Raivis, we've talked about this."

"But I didn't _do_ it!"

"Do you know what alcohol will do to you? Do you want to become like _him?"_

Raivis pulled at Eduard's grip, blood smearing onto his hand. "Let me go…"

"Tell me the truth."

"Don't tell me what to do!"

"Raivis—"

"I said, let GO of me!" With a violent shove, Raivis pushed Eduard away, then turned and stumbled out of the room.

"Raivis!"

Eduard made to run after the Latvian, but stopped in his tracks when the walls shuddered with the slam of a bathroom door.

Eduard thought it best not to seek out Raivis for the remainder of the day. He swept up the shattered dish and returned to his office, mindlessly filing paperwork as he tried to think of a way to help his little brother. The root of the problem was the fact that Raivis was a servant in this hellish mansion, but there was nothing Eduard could do to change that.

Eduard sighed, setting his glasses on the desk and rubbing circles into his eyes. He peered through his fingers to look at the framed photo propped on his desk, he and his two brothers standing stock-straight in uniform against a slate grey background. Although it was impossible to tell in the photograph, Eduard was very different from his brothers. The two relied on their emotions and gut instinct to make decisions, while he depended on logic. 

_Maybe Toris could help?_

His older brother had a gift with people, one Eduard had never possessed. If anyone could convince Raivis to stop drinking, it was him. Eduard slipped on his glasses and snatched up the pen with a flourish, leaning over the desk to scratch a signature. As soon as he was finished, he would find his older brother.

The light streaming into the office turned from bright gold to glowing rose, and now a deep indigo. Eduard glanced out the windows to see a strip of jewel orange bleeding into the horizon. _Still not an Estonian sky,_ he thought bitterly, striding out of the office. He kept his eyes forward, only glancing at the walls when he passed a boldly painted portrait of Stalin. A cold shudder ran down his spine; he shoved his hands into his pockets and quickened his pace.

A sharp turn through the kitchen led to a stairwell that descended into the servant's quarters. Walking down the stairs meant entering into a different world than the elegant decor of the mansion. The waxed floorboards became rough and worn, the walls faded into a dull wash of cement. There were no carvings to be found on the doors, and the handles were simple brass knobs. This part of the mansion was not meant to display the Soviet Union's rich history, culture, and power. No… for this corridor only had one function, and that was to house subordinates.

It was ironic, Eduard realized, that despite the countless elegant guest rooms throughout the mansion, he and his brothers shared a single bedroom. Of course, he didn't mind—the three of them were so busy during the day, their only chance to spend time with each other was at night. But sharing a room meant their personal lives became rather… _entangled._

The Baltics' room was small but functional. Three wooden twin beds stood equally spaced on the left wall, piled with woolen blankets. Beside each bed was a side table with a lamp, and two dressers were sufficient to contain all three of the brothers' limited wardrobe. Although the walls and furniture were painfully bland, closer observation would reveal bits and pieces of the Baltics' personal lives, where it was absent upstairs.

The side table by Raivis's bed was piled with books—romance novels, most of them, the boy was a hopeless romantic—and a small desk he had hauled downstairs was scattered with poetry notes and brainstorming journals from his own creative writing projects (in Russian, of course.) Stacked on Eduard's dresser were science publications he had written during his time studying at the University of Tartu. (Non-political, of course.) There were photographs, too—a much happier one of the trio, back in the 30's when they had been independent (Each flag "censored" with black marker, of course.) Other photos showed the Baltic States posing with friends—Poland, America, Ukraine, and Finland were a few of the faces smiling from the dresser. The more important items—nationalist poetry, saved patches from their old military uniforms, rosary beads—were stored safely in the countless nooks and secret compartments the Baltic States had built, hidden from any prying eyes.

It was cramped, and dull, and cluttered… but this tiny room Eduard shared with his brothers felt much more like home than the looming halls of the mansion.

The door creaked as Eduard pushed it open. A flash of movement caught his eye; he looked up just in time to see Toris whisk something out of sight. The Lithuanian was already smiling, nervously tucking a strand of brown hair behind his ear.

Eduard pulled the door closed behind him with a soft _click._

"What was that?"

"Hm?"

"Don't tell me you're still—" He lowered his voice to a whisper. _"You're still smuggling letters?"_

Toris's fingers curled around the edge of the mattress. "I've found someone with… connections to Warsaw. It's the only contact we have."

Eduard saw the loneliness in his brother's eyes and decided not to argue. Years spent at the Nazi Estate in Berlin had brought Toris and Poland close again. But now that the war was over, their master was doing everything in his power to rip them apart. As if losing his national identity wasn't enough, Toris had also lost his best friend.

Eduard lowered himself onto his own mattress. He watched as his older brother carefully folded a sheet of paper and tucked it into the dust jacket of _Crime and Punishment._

The Lithuanian looked about Eduard's age—in his late twenties. He was slightly shorter with a thinner build, wispy brown hair curving down to brush his shoulders. Eduard thought his brother always looked more… feminine, if that was the right word. Not only in his appearance, but his nature—his face was soft and he always comforted Eduard and Raivis during the most trying times.

Looking at him now, suddenly Eduard didn't want to tell his brother about Raivis. But as the silence stretched on, he realized he had no choice.

"Raivis was drinking again."

Toris's hand jerked away from the book as though he had been stung.

"I… thought it best you talk to him."

"You would deny our brother his only means of escape?"

The question took Eduard aback; as the one who suffered the most from their master's heavy drinking, he had expected Toris to be outraged.

Toris smiled weakly. "Sorry, that was a bit of dry humor. I'll see what I can do."

 _Dry humor, huh?_ Eduard wasn't sure why, but that smile had unnerved him.

There was a low creak, and Eduard's eyes darted to the doorway to see a scrawny form draped with old pajamas, topped with a mop of honey-gold hair. Raivis's eyes were fixed on the floor as he shuffled to his bed. Toris and Eduard watched him climb under his covers and stare into his lap. After a long stretch of silence, he croaked,

"It hurt today. It really hurt, and I just… I just wanted to forget everything."

Eduard sent Toris a meaningful look. The Lithuanian gave a shuddering sigh—for a moment Eduard wondered if his brother would crack under the weight of added stress. But he only looked up to meet Raivis with a stern gaze.

"Raivis. No matter how many times I've watched Ivan try to drink his problems away, the results are always the same: he must wake up the next morning and face them."

"I _know!"_ Raivis's hands balled around the sheets. "I—I know, and I'm sorry, okay? It's just—I just—" His voice cracked as his eyes shimmered with unshed tears. "I can't go out into the city, I can't eat my own food or speak my own language, I can't even distract myself with meaningful work because all I do in this place is—is _clean!_ I can hear my people pleading, begging for help and—and all I can do is just sit here, and—" His eyes squeezed shut, tears rolling down his cheeks to drip off his round chin.

Eduard's heart wrenched. If only there was something he could offer, any comfort to Raivis other than alcohol! His mind went back to those blessed twenty years of independence. Back then, Raivis's smile would light up the room as he plucked the strings of a kokle to the thumps of traditional dancers whirling across the dance floor. Eduard could still hear those peals of laughter, the splash of seawater and the rush of salty wind through outstretched fingers during their beach trips. And of course, the crumbs falling from Raivis's mouth as he told funny stories over piles of traditional food they had prepared, sometimes laughing so hard that he choked.

But for all the things that made his little brother smile, they had none of them here. Folk instruments and song were strictly forbidden—only Soviet anthems were allowed. Moscow was a days' train ride from any coastline, and "family dinners" were taut with tension. Eduard clenched his teeth—surely, there was some way he could make his brother smile again.

A deep _thump_ resonated through the hall, and the Baltics froze where they sat.

"Bed," Toris hissed, dropping the book on the side table just as Eduard reached over to click off the light. He flung aside his sheets and slid in, trying to calm his panicked breaths as he stared up at the cracked ceiling.

 _That letter_ _…_ _couldn't have been Resistance, could it?_

Heavy footsteps grew closer until they stopped at the door. There was a dull scrape of metal as the doorknob slowly turned, then an agonizing _creeeeak._ Eduard's skin crawled as he imagined two glowing violets peering into their room, calculating who would be his next victim.

"Asleep already? I thought I heard crying earlier… it was Latvia, da?"

 _No_ _…_ Eduard's hands shook as he clung to the sheets. _Not him!_

"Such a shame, I see no reason for my Baltics to be crying. We are family, da? I should do something to help."

Eduard cracked an eye open to see his master's form silhouetted in the dark. He was huge—not just in height, but every aspect about him seemed to dwarf the Baltics. Unlike his brothers who shrunk inside of their uniforms, the thick fabric of his overcoat stretched over sinewy muscle. Even his hands were extraordinarily strong—Eduard had watched him crush glass bottles to shards in his anger.

"Latviaaa," Russia sang, and a small whimper echoed from across the room. "Perhaps you can tell me what is wrong, da? There is leftover blini from last night's dessert, I'm sure this will make you happy."

Eduard felt sick. If Russia had somehow discovered Toris's "contact" in Warsaw, then he wanted information… and Raivis was the most likely of the three to spill it.

 _But he doesn't know anything!_

It didn't matter—Eduard knew his master would break every bone in Raivis's body before accepting that fact.

"Latvia." Russia's voice had fallen to a warning tone, and Eduard could tell he wasn't going to repeat himself.

"Yes, sir…" Mattress springs creaked as Raivis sat up and slid out of bed. His entire body shook, barely able to take the few steps to the doorway.

Before Eduard could stop himself, he threw aside the sheets and bolted up in bed. He opened his mouth to speak, then glanced sideways to see that Toris had done the same thing. Eduard blinked in the darkness.

_That's right. He's here this time, he can help us._

"Ivan," Toris began, somehow pulling his lips into a diplomatic smile. He was one of the select few who were on a first-name basis with their master. "Are you sure—"

"There is no need to worry; Latvia and I are just going to have a friendly chat."

"But—"

"He _will_ be safe."

Russia sent Toris a smile that dared him to challenge that statement. Eduard looked from his brother to his master, expecting Toris to do more to intervene. But the expression on the Lithuanian's face softened into acceptance as he nodded for Raivis to continue.

"It'll be alright," he whispered.

Eduard stared at his brother in shock. That was it? A white lie to comfort their little brother when Raivis knew just as well as Eduard what Russia planned to do with him?

Russia seemed to lose patience and stepped forward to grab hold of Raivis's hand. The boy let out a yelp, not fast enough to avoid the Russian's iron grip.

"Latvia and I will be going now, have a good sleep, mal'chiki!"

Eduard watched in horror as Raivis tried to dig in his heels, but he was powerless against Russia's strength. He tripped and staggered out of the room, turning to look at Eduard as the door slammed shut. From the moonlit hallway, Eduard could see tears shimmer on the boy's cheeks.

He leapt out of bed, rushing to the door just as it rattled with the sound of a key in a lock. _No_ _…_ _no, no no NO!_ Eduard wrenched at the doorknob, but his efforts were useless.

"Spakoinoi nochi!" Russia called cheerfully, and the thumps of his footsteps began retreating away.

Eduard's breaths heaved as he struggled to rein in the panic that clawed at his imagination. He could hear the gasp of choked tears and muffled screams behind huge gloved hands, the clang of the dungeon door slamming shut, his hands growing raw as he slammed his fists into the steel again and again…

_EDUARD! Eduard, help me, PLEASE!_

"Eduard."

He jumped at the hand on his shoulder. He had been so immersed in his memories, he hadn't noticed Toris coming up behind him. Eduard glared at the door handle, unable to bring himself to look Toris in the face.

"You believed him."

"Yes, I believed him."

"Then why did he lock the door."

"Because he knew that you wouldn't."

Eduard rounded on his brother, "Don't you realize what's going on here? Russia knows about your letters, and now he's going to interrogate Raivis!"

"He doesn't know about the letters."

"You don't know that."

"Yes I do," Toris pressed, his voice lowered to a whisper. "If Ivan found out that I was writing to Feliks, whatever 'interrogations' he planned would only serve the purpose of forcing me to watch you suffer. I'm not in the kitchen, so he's not making a point."

"You don't need to watch for him to make a point," Eduard hissed. "And he's not taking Raivis into the kitchen—he's taking him to the _dungeon!"_

"Nobody but Ivan has gone in or out of that dungeon for seven years, Eduard. And I think you know the reason why."

In Eduard's panic, he had forgotten it was unlikely for Russia to take Raivis to the dungeon at all. But location didn't matter—Russia could interrogate Raivis just as easily in the kitchen. There were plenty of tools at his disposal…

"If I thought Raivis was in real danger, you know I would have risked everything to save him. Please, Eduard—you have to trust me."

Eduard knew Toris was telling the truth, and yet an old hatred stirred within him. When he spoke, his voice was low and measured:

"Russia went out of his way to take Raivis away from us in the middle of the night, and you think he's perfectly _safe?"_

The Lithuanian took a breath to answer, but his words died in his throat.

Silence pressed around them, and the black feeling in Eduard's gut twisted into a tight coil. He knelt down by the door, pressing his ear against the wood and straining for any noise. He could hear voices coming from the kitchen… so Russia wasn't taking him to the dungeon.

_At least not yet._

Fabric shifted as Toris put his back to the door and slid to the ground. "Raivis said he just wanted to forget everything. That's what Ivan says, when he gets drunk." Eduard turned to see Toris sitting with his arms draped over his knees. "Do you want to forget?"

The question surprised him; it was rare for Toris to ask his opinion. "If I did, what would that make me?"

Toris huffed through his nose. "I don't know. Happy, maybe."

"I think ignorant is a better word."

"They're the same, aren't they?"

Eduard didn't answer; he needed to focus on the voices echoing from the kitchen. As the hours crept by, he was vaguely aware of Toris's breathing becoming shallow. Eduard's eyelids grew heavy, and his head fell forward to rest on the door.

 _I have to stay awake_ _…_ _I have to stay awake for Raivis_ _…_

But the wretched state of his country was taking its toll. Despite the desperate need to stay awake, Eduard could do nothing to keep himself from slipping into the realm of nightmares that was sleep.  
  


* * *

  
  


Cover by [Madam_Lotus](https://twitter.com/Madam_Lotus/status/1277534880780468224/photo/1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everyone! Welcome to my fanfiction project which has taken up 7 years of my life. This story has received immense online support from the FFN.net and the tumblr community. Thank you all so, so much for making this final draft a reality for me. 
> 
> To my new readers: you can find the original posting of "Diamond in the Rough" with original author's notes on my [FFN.net account](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/4204901/Slovenskych) , along with other stories in my Historical Hetalia series. This is the final draft of DITR with heavier editing, embedded fan art, and links to tumblr posts with extra historical information. This version is also more screen reader friendly. History notes with sources can be found at the bottom of each chapter. This story will be updated once a day for 34 days until it is complete.
> 
> THANK YOU to my incredible beta reader, @super-lisa, who stayed with me for a year to keep this ship sailing, even when it felt like we were going through a storm and I had lost the map. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy "Diamond in the Rough." Welcome to the mansion, Comrades.


	2. Plaan — Plan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When talking about the Soviet era, it is important to distinguish between the Soviet Union and the Soviet Bloc.
> 
> The Soviet Union is one COUNTRY made up of fifteen REPUBLICS. These republics include present-day Russia, Ukraine, Belarus, Moldova, the Baltic States, as well as Central Asia and the Caucasus. If you crossed the border from the Russian SFSR to the Latvian SSR, you would NOT be crossing an international border. In this sense, Ivan Braginsky serves two roles. 1) He is the representative of his republic, the RSFSR. And 2) He serves as the HEAD representative of the USSR, meaning all 15 republics together. This means that Ivan is the ONLY nation of the 15 who attends international meetings – the rest of the republics never get to represent the USSR abroad.
> 
> The Soviet Bloc, however, are a group of independent COUNTRIES allied with the USSR. These include the Communist governments of Poland, Hungary, East Germany, Czechoslovakia, Romania, Bulgaria, Yugoslavia (sort of) and Albania. While they were considered puppet states, it is important to remember that they are still countries, meaning these nations would have been able to represent themselves abroad. This includes meetings with the USSR (aka, Ivan) because the USSR is a separate country.
> 
> To sum up: Throughout the story, you will see the term "republic," and you will see the term "satellite state." The difference is that republics are part of the USSR and Ivan is the ONLY one who can attend international meetings. Satellite states are their OWN countries and CAN attend international meetings.
> 
> Ok rant over, enjoy chapter 2!

_Footsteps pounded down the staircase like thunder, shaking the walls and wooden bed frames. The door hurled open with so much force, the hinges snapped._

" _WHERE IS HE!?"_

_Small hands balled around Eduard's shirt, sweaty curls buried into his shoulder as Raivis shook with sobs. They were both too terrified to answer._

_An animal-like snarl echoed through the room. A giant step forward, and gloved hands came to rip Raivis out of his arms._

" _NO!" the boy screamed, fists pulling at Eduard's shirt. "NO, I don't know, we don't know!"_

" _You have the audacity to lie to me boy," Russia snarled. "You will regret it."_

" _Please!" Eduard shouted, craning his neck up at the monster towering over them. "He's telling the truth, we don't know!"_

_But his shouts of protest were useless. Even as he clung to the boy's nightshirt, he was ripped away, and Eduard looked up to see shimmering violets spilling over with tears. He grabbed onto Raivis's hand, fingers slick with sweat lacing between his with a desperate grip._

“ _No_ _…_ _NO, PLEASE! Pease don't take me, PLEASE! I don't know anything, I-I DON'T KNOW!"_

_But Russia didn't listen. With one final tug, small fingers slipped from his, and Raivis's scream was muffled with a giant hand smashing over his lips. He kicked and fought and cried, but nothing the boy did was a match for their master's strength._

_Eduard sat frozen on the ground, staring in horror as his little brother was flung over the Russian's broad shoulder and boot steps echoed out of the room._

* * *

Eduard awoke with a jolt. His eyes darted wildly around the room, taking in the three beds lined against the wall. An aching pain throbbed in his neck and lower back, and his skin felt hot and sweaty beneath the fabric of his uniform.

_I slept in my uniform? But why_ _—_

Then all at once, Eduard remembered. He turned to see the form of Toris slumped onto the floor next to him. A white strip of sunlight streamed through the door—Eduard cursed; how could it already be morning?! He crawled over and shook his brother by the shoulder.

"Toris," he hissed. " _Toris!"_

The Lithuanian pushed himself up from the floor, digging a palm into his eyes. Strands of brown hair stuck every which way, a deep red indent on his cheek.

"Wh… what…"

"Come on, we have to find Raivis! If you were right, Russia shouldn't have taken him far from the kitchen."

Eduard didn't wait for Toris's mind to catch up with the situation; he stood up and threw open the door. As expected, Russia had unlocked it so they could wake up early to do chores. He bolted up the stairs, hearing Toris scramble to his feet as the echoes of footsteps rang out behind him.

"Wait, maybe I should go first!"

The tremor in his brother's voice did nothing to comfort him; Toris must have realized how dangerous the situation was. Eduard narrowed his eyes and sped up, bursting out of the stairwell and into the kitchen. He stopped short at the doorway, taking in the scene before him.

The kitchen was untouched. No blood. No knives. No whips or ropes or even an opened cabinet.

Eduard's nails dug into his palms. _No_ … _they weren't even here!_

"What do you see?" Toris's footsteps grew louder behind him, until he stepped around to look. Eduard watched the color drain from his face. "No," he breathed. Toris ran into the room and ripped the lid off the trash can.

"What are you—"

"Vodka bottles," Toris said, pulling one out to show Eduard. "There are dozens in here. If Ivan took Raivis to the dungeon last night, the trash would be empty."

The two locked eyes with grim understanding.

"Let's split up."

Toris gave a sharp nod, then he and Eduard ran in opposite directions. Eduard checked the chairs, the sofas, behind cabinets and beneath tables. He scanned for any stain of red, a discarded maroon uniform, a child's hand lying on the floor behind a piece of furniture…

"Eduard! Come quick!"

"Where?" he called.

"The living room by the kitchen!"

He raced into the hall, socks sliding across the kitchen tile before he staggered to a stop at the living room entrance.

Toris stood frozen, eyes wide as he stared at a woolen heap on the couch. A blanket was draped over a thin body that rose and fell with soft breaths. A blond mop of curls lay at the end, twisted into wet ringlets that plastered against the boy's head.

Eduard crossed the room and flung off the blanket, a deep _whoosh_ ripping through the air as it fell to the floor.

The first thing he noticed was the absence of blood. His eyes scoured every inch of Raivis's thin body, but he couldn't find so much as a speck. The second was the sweat—Raivis's skin glistened in the morning light. And the third was the smell.

Eduard turned to Toris, and his brother's grim expression confirmed what he already knew.

A strangled moan rumbled from the couch. Raivis's hands curled into fists and he rolled his face onto the cushion. He stayed that way for a few seconds until he gave up and turned his head sideways to gasp for air. Eduard watched the boy's eyes slowly blinked open. They were bloodshot with a dreary, unattached look.

"Uhhnn… where 'm I?"

Eduard knelt down, pressing his hand to Raivis's forehead. _No fever._ "Raivis. I know you're confused but I need you to concentrate. Do you remember what happened last night?"

"Wh… last… no…" Raivis squeezed his eyes shut, fists curling around the cushions. "My head hurrrffs," he whined into the sofa.

Eduard exchanged a worried glance with Toris. 

_Could Russia have_ _…_ _?_

The Lithuanian seemed to read his mind; his face grew deathly pale. Somehow Toris managed to keep his voice even as he said, "Raivis, can you sit up?"

"Why," the boy moaned.

"We need you to take off your shirt."

A pause. Raivis lifted his head from the couch. "What?"

"It's dirty; I'll bring you a new one."

"Okay…" Raivis grunted as he pushed himself up.

Eduard watched closely for any winces of pain, but the boy's slow movements seemed to be due to his hangover. Thin fingers fumbled with his uniform buttons before pulling it over his shoulders, revealing a ladder of pale ribs.

"You guys are acting really weird this morning," he mumbled into the fabric. "And why did I fall asleep on the couch?"

Eduard wasn't listening. He scanned his brother's chest, searching for any gashes, cuts, bruises… but there was nothing.

 _Did Russia_ _…_ _not hurt him at all?_

"Why are you looking at me like that? Did something bad happen?"

Eduard only stared at his brother's face—gaunt, but absent of any sign of abuse. 

_I_ _…_ _don't know._

Raivis opened his mouth to ask another question, but he was cut off when Toris joined him on the couch and crushed him into a tight hug. "Atleisk," he whispered into sweaty curls. "Aš taip bijojau, kad Ivanas nesilaikė pažado."

"Umm, Toris… You know I can't understand your weird language, right?"

Toris smiled at Eduard over the boy's shoulder as if to say, _That's our Raivis._

But Eduard wasn't sold on the Latvian's lack of injury. Judging by the number of vodka bottles in the trashcan, Russia had purposefully gotten him drunk. Eduard grit his teeth.

_It's just another form of interrogation._

But if Russia didn't hurt Raivis, did that mean the boy gave him the answers he wanted? Would he interrogate him again?

"You can let go of me now."

Toris untangled himself from his brother, still smiling. He reached forward to tuck a sweaty curl behind Raivis's ear. "You should take a shower. And when you get out, I'll have some nice warm pirags waiting for you in the kitchen."

Raivis wrinkled his nose. " _You_ should take a shower. What is that, vodka?" He waved an uncoordinated hand in front of his face. " _Phew!_ Really, Toris, easy on the alcokolohol. Alco… hol. Yeah."

Eduard grew frustrated; Raivis was their best piece of evidence as to what happened the night before, but he had blacked out! He stepped forward to put an arm around his brother's shoulder. "Come on, time to clear your head."

Raivis slid off the couch, barely managing to catch his balance. He clung to Eduard for support as they made their way to the stairs. "You tellim, Eduard, Toris really stinks, I mean BAD, you could prolly smell him from across the whole _mansion_ he stinks so bad."

Eduard's mind clouded with more questions. Did Russia know about the letters at all? Would it even matter if he did, once he got Raivis talking? And what had the boy told him, to not even have a single bruise the next morning? If it was information Russia wanted, then there would be blood to pay for it, regardless of whether Raivis had the answers or not.

 _But if there's no blood_ _…_ _then what does he want?_

His thoughts were interrupted by a tug on his pants. He looked down to see Raivis sending him a worried look. "You're making that face again."

Eduard blinked. "What face."

"The face you make when you're trying to solve the world's problems."

"Is that a bad thing?"

"No. It means you're still you."

Eduard had no idea what Raivis meant by that.

"Just… don't stress yourself out, okay? The world can't fit into your filing cabinets."

Eduard looked down at the Latvian—bags under his eyes, sweaty curls pressed to his head, pale as death and dangerously thin… but beneath all of that was still his little brother. The boy whose brutal honesty was a breath of fresh air in this lair of lies, the only person who knew Eduard inside and out after being together for so many years.

Looking at him now, Eduard was struck with just how frail and defenseless Raivis was in comparison to Russia's immense strength. He took the boy's hand and grasped it tightly as he glared down the hallway.

_Sorry, Russia. But I won't let you take him this time._

Eduard sent Raivis to fetch his clothes from their bedroom, stepping into the bathroom to brush his teeth and drag a comb through his hair.

There was nothing particularly noticeable about Eduard’s appearance—he was taller and thicker built than his brothers, but this put him at about average for Estonian men. His straight blond hair was cut into an even line of bangs that brushed the tops of his eyebrows, and he'd been told that his eyes were the color of blue ice on the Baltic Sea.

But what Eduard prided himself in, was his intellect.

He narrowed his eyes at his reflection. _Think, von Bock. How can I keep this from happening again? What can I do to protect him?_ After helping Raivis into the shower and ignoring the boy's protests of, "I can do it _myself!"_ he changed into a new uniform and headed back upstairs.

The kitchen was the jewel of Russia's mansion. Granite countertops shone in the morning light, set off by the slick wooden cabinets. There was not just one, but _two_ ovens fit for preparing a feast. An island stood in the center, facing the paned windows that looked out to the white expanse of Russia's property. Birds flitted across the windows, pecking at feed and hopping on the frozen bird bath. A small breakfast table offered a nice view, the embroidered curtains throwing shadows across polished wood.

Eduard had always been envious of Toris for having such a nice workplace. The kitchen always seemed warmer than the cold, functional design of his office… not to mention that whatever meal Toris was preparing always smelled delicious.

Now various ingredients were spread across the counters—flour, eggs, milk, and an assortment of bowls and spoons. Toris wore an apron, his hair pulled back into a ponytail as he kneaded a slab of dough. He looked up and met Eduard with a warm smile.

"I left the tea kettle empty for you."

"Thanks."

Eduard walked to the stove and brought the tea kettle to the sink, filling it with rushing tap. Making the tea was supposed to be Toris's job, but he found it a nice excuse to get away from his desk work. His gaze shifted to the Lithuanian, and he wondered how Toris was able to act as though nothing was wrong. A part of him didn't want to ruin the cheerful mood, but he had no choice.

"Toris."

His brother didn't answer, but Eduard knew he was listening.

"You said Russia wasn't going to hurt Raivis, and it seems you were right. But you also said that he didn't know about your letters. After what we've seen… do you still believe that?"

There was a pause, and then, "Yes."

"So you think Russia's interrogation was a shot in the dark?"

Toris frowned as his hands pressed into the dough. "What makes you so sure it was an interrogation?"

"What else would it be? You saw how many bottles Russia forced down his throat—imagine what kind of information he could have spilled."

"We haven't undermined Russia's authority in seven years, Eduard. There's no information to spill."

Eduard shut off the water and turned around. His voice was low as he said, "Except for your letters."

Toris grew still, and his hands clenched around the dough. "What I do know is that if Ivan wanted information, he would have drawn blood to get it. If not Raivis's, then yours or mine. I don't think it was an interrogation at all."

"Then what else could it be?"

"I don't—" Toris's shoulders rose and fell with a short sigh. "I don't know."

Eduard watched as his brother resumed kneading the dough. He had a feeling Toris was lying; he must have some idea of Russia's intentions. But as usual, his brother was choosing to keep that hunch to himself.

"How far would you be willing to go to find out for sure?"

Toris's hands fell from the counter, white flecks of flour drifting to the floor. He turned to meet Eduard's gaze.

"If you can't prove this wasn't an interrogation, I think our safest option is to assume it was. For whatever reason Russia decided not to hurt Raivis, but he may not be so merciful next time. Chances are he's going to strike again—if not for Raivis, then for you or me—and we need to be ready when he does."

Thin brows pressed into confusion. "Eduard… where is this coming from?"

"Do you want us to be caught blindsided?"

"Well… no, but—I've never seen you like this before."

"Raivis hasn't been in this kind of danger before."

Toris studied Eduard a moment longer before his eyes fell. "I see." He shifted his weight, wiping his hands on the apron. "I don't believe Ivan is hurting anyone now, or even trying to. But if you start moving behind his back, he _will_ have something to interrogate Raivis about. That alone is a huge risk."

A familiar sense of anger rose inside of Eduard. He set down the tea kettle with a _clang_. "How can you defend him so easily? What makes you so sure he's not hurting anyone?"

"I'm not—"

"There are hundreds of your people being held in prison this very moment, maybe even being tortured because they spoke out against the regime. What would they think, knowing _you're_ the one who's supposed to be standing up for them, when all you do is make excuses for the very government that put them in jail!"

Toris's flour-caked hands curled into fists. " _I'm_ the government that put them in jail, Eduard. _I'm_ the LSSR. As nations we represent our people, but we also represent the government oppressing those people. We're puppets at the mercy of our leaders; Ivan is no different."

Eduard was tired of this argument. He and Toris had disagreed on Russia from the moment they stepped into his Petersburg Estate in 1795. But even after over a century of twisted romance, betrayal and beatings, the Lithuanian still defended their master. Eduard could never understand it, and he certainly didn't want to waste time arguing about it when there were more pressing matters to discuss.

"Russia wants information now; we have to stop him while we still can." He glanced around to make sure they were alone, then lowered his voice to a whisper, "I have a plan. If we're going to find out for sure what Russia is doing to Raivis, one of us needs to be _outside_ of the room when it happens. If this is going to work without Russia noticing, we'll need a decoy."

Toris huffed and turned back to the counter. "Ivan isn't going to fall for a pile of blankets."

"I'm not saying we use blankets."

Toris glanced back, "Then what—"

"Do you believe that Prussia is dead?"

A mixture of emotions coursed through the Lithuanian's face—first shock, then confusion, then his expression became defensive. Eduard didn't wait for an answer.

"I had completely forgotten about it until you mentioned it yesterday: Nobody but Russia has gone in or out of that dungeon for seven years. That means _Russia still makes regular trips to the dungeon._ You've seen it, haven't you?"

Toris glared at the floor. Eduard couldn't tell if he was too shocked or too angry to respond.

"So I'm right in deducing that Prussia is still alive."

His brother's silence was only a confirmation of what Eduard already knew. He continued, knowing that he was treading on dangerous ground.

"By law, all nations have to attend any international meeting pertaining to their jurisdiction. Russia hasn't held a meeting involving the territory of East Germany since 1945 when the war ended. That was seven years ago… which is exactly how long Russia has been telling us that Prussia is dead. Now there's a chance this is mere coincidence. If so, we could convince Russia to hold a meeting between him and his satellite states. Per international law, Russia would release Prussia from the dungeon and we would have ourselves a decoy."

Toris gaped at Eduard.

"I know it sounds like a long shot. But considering NATO's growing strength, don't you think it's odd Russia hasn't held a meeting with his so-called 'buffer zone?' The argument would be easy to make; it's a matter of national security."

Toris let out a harsh scoff. "National _security?_ Have you lost your mind? You would let that beast out of the dungeon—put him back in a chair around a meeting room table and expect him to make rational military decisions? And forget about the meeting; what about _us?_ If you're so concerned for Raivis's safety, what will you do when he's sharing a bathroom with a mass murderer?"

"Toris—"

"You think he's been learning _manners_ in that dungeon? You think Russia has been teaching him how to be an upstanding Soviet citizen? Locked in pitch blackness for seven years with no company but his own hatred—Did it ever cross your mind that Prussia's chains keep his bloodied hands off our necks?"

Eduard shuddered at the image of the Prussian sneering down, visored military cap casting a shadow over blood-red eyes that matched the armband encircling his left sleeve. In his excitement he had forgotten how dangerous Russia's prisoner really was.

_Prussia is a murderer, yes. But it's likely seven years in that dungeon has weakened him. Russia, on the other hand, is just the same monster he's always been._

Eduard kept his voice even as he looked his brother straight in the eye. "I understand where you're coming from. But I'm willing to take that risk if it means protecting Raivis."

"If you want to protect Raivis, you should start by keeping him as far away from that Nazi as possible."

Eduard grew frustrated; he was getting nowhere. "So you won't help me with this."

"I'm sorry, Eduard. It's too dangerous."

Eduard ground his jaw; convincing Russia to hold a meeting would be impossible without Toris's help. "What if Raivis gets taken again? What if the next time we run to this kitchen, the counters are stained with blood? Could you live with the fact that you refused to prevent it?"

"If it means keeping that _monster_ in the dungeon where he belongs, then yes."

One look into those fiery eyes, and Eduard knew there was no possible way for him to change Toris's mind. He fit the lid onto the teapot, switching on the stove with the click-click-click of gas and _whoosh_ of blue flame.

Toris had turned back to the counter, although now he kneaded the dough with more force. Eduard didn't try continuing the conversation—he could tell when the former ruler of Eastern Europe needed space. He strode out of the kitchen, hands shoved in his pockets as he watched the swirl of wood paneling pass beneath him.

 _I'm just going to have to think of another plan. There's got to be a way_ _…_ _some obscure law, some loophole we can use._

Eduard stopped by a window to watch snowflakes slowly drift past the curtains. He knew his brother and Prussia had bad blood, but he never expected such a strong reaction. Did it have to do with ancient history? Or was it something more recent, like the war?

A low rumble growled from his stomach, and Eduard's posture slouched in defeat. 

_Dammit_ _…_ _I should have asked for a pirag._

* * *

Toris needed to crush something with his hands.

He shoved his fists through the dough, watching the texture rip and break. The sporadic pops of gunshots rang through his memory. He breathed in the scent of gunpowder and smoke, mixed with the wet loamy earth. Memories he had pushed to the back of his mind began to resurface, dragging him into the choking blackness of war…

_An ear-splitting shatter pierced the house, shards of glass flying in every direction. He cowered behind a table, hands covering his head in a desperate attempt to shield himself from the explosion. Splinters whizzed like tiny bullets into his skin, the heat of the blast burning clean through his uniform. His lungs filled with smoke and he clutched his chest as he coughed, bloodied hands clawing the floor for balance._

_Glass crunched underfoot and he felt the presence of another nation. Toris spat a glob of blood onto the floor. His throat burned as he rasped,_

_"A grenade? That's cheap, even for you."_

" _Trying to kill me while your people look up to me as their liberator?"_

_A boot sent a shard of glass skidding towards him. He winced as it struck the table, splintering into pieces._

_"That's stupid, even for you."_

_Toris tried to struggle to his feet despite the ringing inside of his head. "You_ _—_ _you killed Feliks_ _…_ _"_

" _I kill a lot of people."_

_Toris was enraged at the indifference in Prussia's voice. He grunted as he pushed himself off the ground, but froze when he looked up straight into the barrel of a pistol._

_Two orbs of glittering scarlet jeered down at him, lips curled into a satisfied smirk. Prussia's teeth were a startling white against the red_ _—_ _the red in the sky, the red in his eyes, the red staining his uniform._

_Looking into them, Toris was filled with sick horror. How many had met that maddened gaze before breathing their last?_

" _I'm going to be a nice guy and lay out your options. One: You get your socialist ass out of here and onto the next convoy of POW's where you'll be transferred to Berlin. Two: I pull this trigger and you lose what little brains you have left, then you wake up with a hole in your head on a convoy to Berlin."_

_Toris's eyes widened, horrified at the thought of being shipped to another nation's house like a trophy. Prussia was right_ _—_ _he wanted to kill him_ _—_ _but that was for personal reasons. He had hoped along with his people that the Nazis would grant him autonomy._

_Prussia must have seen the dismay on Toris's face. He smirked. "What, Russia never shot you before? You're such an annoying little gnat, you'd think he would have finished you off by now."_

_Toris trembled with so much anger that he could barely keep his balance. He glared up at his nemesis and ground out, "You promised independence."_

_Obnoxious laughter filled the air, a mocking cackle that sent chills down his spine. "KESESESE! He thinks_ _—_ _independence_ _—_ _HAHAHAHA!" Prussia was laughing so hard that he lowered the gun, bending over and struggling to breathe._

_Toris felt something shatter inside of him. The fleeting hope he had been clinging to this entire war_ _—_ _that maybe, when the Germans came, he could finally be free of Russia's tyrannical rule_ _—_ _shriveled and died. With a jolt, Toris realized that negotiating was no longer an option. Divisions of his men were already organized and ready to fight for independence_ _—_ _he had to get out, he had to warn them!_

_He sprung to his feet and lunged past Prussia, leaping over scorched furniture, lungs burning with every gasp for air. His eyes focused on the nearest window_ _—_ _it was his only way out._

_BANG!_

" _AAH!"_

_Toris cried out as a bullet tore into his right shoulder. The impact sent him flying forward, but he caught himself with his hands and tried to scramble to his feet. A boot kicked him down, mashing his face against the broken glass. He could feel the shards puncture into his skin, his shoulder roaring with such pain that his vision flickered._

_Toris let out a strangled bellow as Prussia put his entire weight onto the wound. He breathed hard through his mouth, scattering flecks of spit and blood. "Ne," he moaned, voice cracking with the strain. His people, he had to get to his people!_

_At last the pressure was removed from his shoulder. Toris prepared to scramble away, but his muscles froze when a cool circular ring pressed into the back of his head._

" _Willkommen im Dritten Reich_ _…_ Uselessuania."

_BANG!_

Toris froze, knuckles caked with flour as they shook. His chest heaved with short gasps, a loose strand of hair quivering at his breath. 

_I_ _…_ _I forgot_ _…_

How long had it been? How long, since he stopped pushing away the pain and allowed himself to feel it?

A rush of images crashed into him: Shouts of protests as entire families were forced into boxcars, the clang of a pickaxe on permafrost… The crackle of synagogues going up in flames, gunshots drowned out by a motor to hide the mass shootings…

The dull throb in the back of Toris's head focused into a physical aching in his chest. He staggered and caught himself with a shaking hand on the counter.

When had it happened? When had he allowed himself to forget what his people were still risking their lives to protect? What about the partisans, who he _himself_ had helped organize in that precious window of time before moving back to Moscow?

"You _idiot!_ " he hissed in his own language, tangling a hand in his bangs. "I'm the Grand Duchy of Lithuania—I had my independence, I beat _two_ armies to get it, and then just because of some stupid non-aggression pact I'm back in Ivan's kitchen making pastries!?"

A familiar burn of rage scalded his throat—one he hadn't felt in years. Not since… _that_ day. Since the pain became so much that he could no longer bear it, since he grew weak in his master's arms and screamed into the fabric of his scarf. Toris's stomach twisted with sickness as he remembered the words he had choked six years ago, hands gripping the folds of Ivan's uniform as if it had been the only thing keeping him alive:

_Make me forget._

"Make me forget?" he scoffed, wringing his hands as flecks of flour whirled to the floor. "Wh—what kind of a nation even _says_ that—and to Ivan, no less! Of _course_ he wanted me to forget, that's the whole point of this damn regime!" Toris's eyes widened as he realized the truth:

_Ivan wasn't even trying to set a trap_ _—_ _I walked into one all on my own!_

"Litva?"

A mixture of fear and anger jolted through him at the sound of that voice. Toris jerked his head up to see what he already knew was there. His brain screamed at him to do something—to explain to his master why he just dared to utter his own language in this house—but the pulsing haze of hurt and anger sent all protocol flying out the window.

Ivan's brows drew together in a frown. "You were speaking—"

"I'm sorry," Toris blurted, snapping to attention and tucking a loose strand of hair behind his ear.

He hated working in the kitchen.

His back was always turned to the entryways, making it all too easy for Ivan to stand behind him and snake a hand around his waist, or sigh into his hair. Not to mention the ample supply of potential weapons within arm’s reach: cutting knives, serving spoons, the stove… It wasn't like Eduard's office, where the Estonian could easily watch the entrance and be ready if Ivan came in. Or Raivis's cleaning job, in which he could be difficult to track down during the day.

No… Toris worked in the kitchen. Central. Accessible. Vulnerable.

Once when Toris had asked for a different job, his master had only beamed and said, "But Litva, your cooking is just too good to pass up!” Toris struggled to keep his composure as a deep hatred flared up inside of him.

_You haven't even tried my brothers' cooking, have you?_

Ivan studied him for some time. Toris tried not to squirm, feeling as though he was being pinned to the floor.

His master's expression didn't change as he crossed the room in giant strides. Toris squeezed his eyes shut as the Russian brought back a hand. There was a slight _whoosh_ , then Ivan struck him so hard that it sent him staggering backwards into the counter. Toris barely managed to catch his balance, wincing as he worked his stinging jaw.

"It was foolish of you to speak your own language." Ivan wasn't even looking at him—instead he faced the stove where Eduard had left the kettle, lips pulled into a frown. "It is rude, da? Not everyone can understand you, they will think you are keeping secrets. That is why we must speak the same language, so that we can trust each other." Ivan's lips broke into a fake smile. "I thought you understood this, Litva."

"I do," Toris said quietly. "I'm sorry sir, it won't happen again."

"Litva, look at me."

Reluctantly, Toris did, and found himself observing the bold features of his captor.

By far the most noticeable trait was Ivan's _size._

Of all the meetings with Russian tsars and military generals Toris had witnessed, nobody in the room had even come close to his master's towering height. Ivan truly lived up to his title as the world's largest nation, with shoulders like that of an ox and calloused hands that could easily snap bone. Even before the Commonwealth's collapse, Toris had despised the fact that he always looked _up_ to the Russian when they spoke. The closer Ivan stood, the greater the height difference—and he took full advantage of it.

Ivan's face, on the other hand, was more standard for Russian men. His nose was prominent, which made him look wise well beyond his young appearance. His jawline was square and defined, supported by a muscular neck that was enveloped in a woolen scarf. Ivan kept his hair long so that silver-blond waves hugged the side of his face, bangs sweeping across his dark brow. His eyes were small and sunken compared to the hulking form of his body, but their unusual violet color made for an ice-cold gaze that sent chills down the backs of even the most powerful nations.

Toris knew he had witnessed a range of emotions on the Russian's hardened features that few had—he had seen those eyes grow bloodshot from days of crying, had watched them melt with awe and affection. These rare cracks in Ivan's steel mask, however small, had become more frequent since…

 _Since that day,_ Toris thought with a shudder.

It seemed this was one of those times, as Ivan frowned in concern. "You were angry."

Toris hesitated; so Ivan had noticed. "Yes, sir."

"Are you angry at me?"

"No… sir."

Ivan took a step towards him, and his presence intensified: The crisp scent of vodka and winter, the warmth of his body, the shifting of his coat. Even the room sounded different with Ivan near him, as though his giant form was sucking the noise out of the air.

Ivan tilted his head, reaching out with a finger to tuck a strand of hair behind Toris's ear. A tingling sensation shot down the Lithuanian's body. He fluttered his eyelids, trying to calm his breathing.

"Then who?"

Toris swallowed. _With myself, for being so pathetic and falling for my own act._

But what he said was, "Prussia."

Ivan let out a slow breath, the warm air brushing Toris's bangs. His side tingled with the chill of rough palms cupping around his waist.

"He… he _stole_ you from me."

Ivan's hand tightened, making it difficult for Toris to breathe. The familiar touch set his skin on fire—a hot sting that he wanted to slap away. Toris closed his eyes, forcing his emotions under control.

"It's alright," he whispered. "I'm still here."

Slowly, the grip loosened. Ivan's breathing steadied and those eyes flicked up to lock with Toris's.

"Da. You're still here."

_I'm still here._

The words settled like a black pit in Toris's stomach. For six years he had endured this. Slaps across the face, powerful hands digging bruises into his hips, cold lips breathing the stench of alcohol into his lungs… and yet his answer was always the same:

_Yes, sir. Of course, sir. I understand, sir._

Ivan had become such an influence in his life that some days Toris couldn't remember who he was, or what he had been. But the memory of that bullet ripping into the back of his skull, the maddened cackles of laughter at his defeat… it was as if Toris had been shaken awake for the first time since that day.

 _I wasn't always like this._ His free hand curled into a tight fist. _I can't play this game anymore. My people deserve better._

"Toris."

He was torn from his thoughts by the rumble of Ivan using his real name. He looked up and tried not to appear distracted. "Yes, sir?"

"Close your eyes."

Toris didn't have time to respond before the hand around his waist pulled him forward. He knew what was coming; his eyes fluttered shut as he was pulled into a kiss.

Ivan's lips were warm but chapped, moving softly against his own. What was once a means of escape now burned him; his flour-caked nails dug into the Russian's biceps as he resisted the reflex to jerk away.

The kiss was shorter than usual. Ivan pulled back and looked down on Toris. "Do you feel better?"

Toris searched his master's face. Kind eyes, relaxed muscles, lips lifted into a rare genuine smile…

_Ivan trusts me._

Toris's heart sped up in his chest. What if he _could_ get away with working behind the Russian's back? Eduard's plan was the perfect opportunity to see how far Ivan would allow him to push the rules.

_Perhaps the risk wouldn't be so great, after all_ _…_

If Toris was going to convince Ivan of a meeting, he had to act now. But it was more than the meeting; if Eduard's plan was going to work, they needed leverage over Prussia.

_If I could just get the key_ _…_

His gaze settled on the center of Ivan's chest. And with a thrill of horror and excitement, Toris realized what he needed to do.

"No."

Ivan frowned in confusion. "Wh—"

"No, Ivan, I _don't_ feel better," Toris breathed, his words hot against his master's face. Ivan could only widen his eyes before Toris rose on tiptoes to pull their lips together.

The surprise only lasted a second before Ivan ground into him, the hand around his waist pulling Toris flush against his broad chest. This time Toris participated—he reached up to drag his fingers through thick hair before letting them fall to ghost up Ivan's chest… and feel the small, hard lump in the center.

Toris gasped, and Ivan took the opportunity to deepen the kiss. His mouth tasted like vodka, his skin was hot and tingling like fire at Ivan's touch, he found himself slipping away into the muscular form moving against him…

Somehow Toris's hands found Ivan's shoulders and he pushed away. There was a suction noise as their mouths broke apart. Ivan had backed Toris into the counter, a large knee pressing his thighs open.

The only sound in the kitchen was their heavy breathing.

Ivan's eyes were clouded with a trust that had been established between them over the seven years of unfaltering obedience. The soft smiles, caring touches… all proof Toris had room to make a few "mistakes."

He hid a bitter smile. _It's been too long since I've made that judgement._

His words were soft so that only the Russian could hear them: "Are you… busy tonight?"

"What are you asking, Litva?" Ivan asked slowly.

Toris never broke eye contact as he smoothed a hand up the Russian's thigh.

Violets widened with understanding.

"You—you _want_ to—?"

_Prussia, I am NOT doing this for you._

Toris forced his lips into a shaky smile. "Yes."

* * *

HISTORY NOTES

**Restoration of Lithuanian Independence**

Each Baltic State fought their own War of Independence in which multiple groups within their countries fought for control after WWI. While Lithuania was the first of the three to declare independence (February 16, 1918, which they celebrate as Independence Day) they were caught in a crossfire between Soviet and Polish forces trying to take back territory. Thus, Lithuania's interwar period lasted until October of 1920 when Lithuania was finally secured as a sovereign state.

**First Soviet Occupation of Lithuania**

The Molotov-Ribbentrop pact was a non-aggression pact signed between Nazi Germany and the USSR on August 3, 1939. This ensured that in exchange for the assistance of the invasion of Poland, the USSR would receive the territory of the newly independent Baltic States. Through a series of ultimatums, Lithuanian leaders had no choice but to allow a complete Soviet takeover. On August 3, 1940, the Lithuanian SSR officially became a Soviet Republic. Sovietization began immediately, one of the strategies being mass deportation. In 1941 alone, over 12,600 Lithuanians were deported to Gulag labor camps in Siberia. Most of the deportees were intelligentsia, politicians, or former Lithuanian military. To this day, Soviet deportations weigh heavy on the Lithuanian psyche.

**Nazi Occupation of Lithuania**

On June 22, 1941, the Lithuanian SSR was invaded by Army Group North and Army Group Centre of Nazi Germany. After a brutal year of occupation by the USSR, many Lithuanians felt the Nazis would grant them autonomy. They either assisted in the invasion, or fought in pro-independence groups. By the end of July, Lithuania officially became part of Reichskommissariat Ostland, the Nazi-occupied territory of all three Baltic States. Encouraged by the Nazis' antisemitic policies, Lithuanian auxiliary forces carried out what is considered the worst pogrom in WWII from June 25-26, in which 3,800 Jews were killed and many synagogues burned. Most Jews in Lithuania were not killed via concentration camps, but shot in executions pits. Most of these executions were carried out at Ninth Fort, where an estimated 30,000 Jews were murdered. Vehicle engines were used to drown out the gunshots during execution. (Source: Ninth Fort Museum, Kaunas)

**Lithuanian Partisans**

While there was underground resistance against Soviet power in all three Baltic States, the most organized were the partisans of Lithuania. During the entire partisan war period, over 50,000 Lithuanians participated in armed resistance. Partisans fought against Soviet government officials, killed local communist activists, and printed underground publications. The movement lasted from 1944-1953, during which over 20,000 partisans were killed. Soviet police would display their dead bodies in town squares, and family members couldn't react upon risk of being associated with them. Of all those killed, half were ages 16-21. (Source: Museum of Genocide Victims, Vilnius)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you may have gathered, I have learned much of the cultural/historical information included in DITR from a year I spent studying abroad in a Russian-speaking area of Latvia. I will source books and museums as they apply. 
> 
> If you are interested in the Polish-Lithuanian War, you can read my fic [Don't Let Me Die.](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/11874016/1/Don-t-Let-Me-Die)
> 
> For photos and more historical information about Lithuanian Partisans and deportations, click [HERE](https://chessna2.tumblr.com/post/180901046347/latvialithuania-extra-materials)
> 
> Thank you for reading, and feel free to leave comments!


	3. Skandalas — Scandal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a disclaimer that Toris and Ivan's relationship is fundamentally unhealthy and I am in no way romanticizing their situation. Nobody should ever be forced to make the kinds of choices, or feel the way that Toris does. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!

"But how can Toris be sure that Russia doesn't know about his letters?"

Eduard took the polished glass from his brother and slid it onto the shelf. After taking a shower, wolfing down every single one of Toris's pirags, and sleeping for most of the day, Raivis had returned to normal… which meant Eduard was left with the task of answering the boy's questions.

It was Raivis who had brought up the letters—apparently he had known Toris was hiding them all along. An uneasy feeling settled in Eduard's stomach; if Raivis had known about the letters, then Russia might have been successful in his interrogation. Eduard took another glass from Raivis.

"When it comes to Russia, it's impossible to 'be sure' of anything; that's why I'm wary of Toris's confidence. I think he may have some solid evidence backing his theory; he just won't tell me what it is."

"Maybe Russia has told him something?"

"Maybe. Even if Toris is right we need to be careful; there's no telling what Russia will do next."

Eduard frowned at a smear on the glass and handed it back. When the boy didn't take it, he looked down to see him twisting the polishing rag in his hands.

"Are you… I dunno… nervous?"

Eduard scoffed. "Of course I'm nervous. After what Russia did to you—"

"No, not about Russia. I mean…" Raivis bowed his head as if in shame. Eduard understood what was worrying his brother.

"I was at first, but then Toris was right about Russia not hurting you. I trust him—I just think that for better or worse, he keeps a lot of secrets. Here, you missed a spot."

Raivis snapped to attention and took the glass from Eduard, scrubbing away the smear. "But he didn't _used_ to keep a lot of secrets. It feels like ever since the war, he's just been…"

The boy trailed off, unable to put his thoughts into words. His brows slowly knit together, until he looked up with a flash of irritation. "It's like he's forgotten we can take all his shit, you know? He's going to explode if he doesn't let it out somehow."

Eduard stared at his brother.

"What?"

"You have a strange imagination."

"Compared to you, _everyone_ has a strange imagination," Raivis said, lips softening into a playful smirk.

"What am I, a robot?"

"Basically, yeah." Raivis's eyes widened and his entire body stiffened. He folded his arms halfway, rotating mechanically and talking in a monotone voice: _Receiving new input, receiving new input. Processing. Unidentified material. Oh my god, emotions, what is that!? Malfunction, malfunction!"_

Eduard couldn't help but smile. He reached down to ruffle Raivis's hair.

The boy immediately broke out of his robot impression, pushing Eduard's hand away. " _Hey!"_

For the first time all day, Eduard felt himself relax. After retreating to the living room to think of another plan, he had heard Russia's voice in the kitchen. Worried that Toris was in trouble, Eduard had returned… but of course it was just his luck that he would pass the entrance during an _intimate_ moment.

Raivis was right, Toris did seem to keep a lot of secrets since the war, Russia being one of them. Eduard wasn't sure what disturbed him more—the fact that Russia pursued Toris as a love interest, or the fact that Toris let him.

Ever since then he had been on edge, caught between trying to think of a new plan and holding a normal conversation with Toris and Russia over dinner. Eduard never thought he would miss Raivis's tactless remarks, but today the silence had been even more deafening than usual.

 _How on earth have I managed to live in this madhouse for over a century?_ he wondered, sliding the last glass in its place on the shelf.

Raivis set down the rag on the table and stretched, his words distorted with a gaping yawn: "Thanks for helping me with the glasses."

Eduard closed the cabinet doors, glancing at his tired reflection in the polished wood. "It's probably safest for us to work together on chores like this, at least until we can learn more about Russia's intentions. He's too unpredictable; we can't afford to make any mistakes."

Raivis made a face. "I'm not a kid, Eduard; I think I can handle dishes on my own. And don't you have desk work to do?"

"I'm willing to fall behind if it means keeping you safe. Would you rather Russia take you to the kitchen again when he hears shattering porcelain from his office?"

Raivis opened his mouth to argue, but his sentence died in his throat. He puffed out a lip and crossed his arms. "Fine, you can help me. It's just… you make it sound like I drop every plate I touch."

Eduard decided not to point out that Raivis might drop fewer plates if he didn't drink. Still, he understood the boy's frustration. _Don't worry,_ he thought, taking the rag off the table and slinging it over his shoulder. _We'll get to the bottom of this, I promise._

As he and Raivis made their way to the bedroom, Eduard noticed the kitchen lights had been turned off. _That means Toris is already in bed._ He hoped his brother was asleep; Eduard dreaded facing him after what he'd seen this morning.

As they reached the staircase, Raivis raced down the steps and threw open the bedroom door. "Hey, Toris, I'm all bet—!"

Eduard frowned. "What's wrong?"

"Um. Toris isn't… here."

 _What?_ Eduard jogged up behind Raivis and glanced into the room to see that the light was turned off, the blankets on Toris's bed untouched… _I should have known._ After what he saw in the kitchen today, of course Toris would go "missing."

"Hey…" Raivis's hand tightened around the door jamb. "You said that Toris was sure Russia didn't know about his letters… right? What if that was just a lie? What if… what if Toris got scared, and—and ran away?"

Eduard's heart skipped a beat. _No_ _…_ _No, he wouldn't_ _…_

"It makes sense, right? If Russia is on his trail, then his best option would be to escape while he still can…"

Eduard forced rising memories into submission, commanding himself to slow down and think it through. _Would Toris really have a reason to leave?_ He tried to remember the Lithuanian's words, if there had been any hint of deception in them. _He seemed panicked this morning, but after we found Raivis he wasn't worried at all. Could that have been an act, or_ _…_ _?_ Suddenly he was struck with the image of his brother lunging for a kiss. _No. This is different._

Eduard's expression hardened. "Toris didn't escape."

"How do you know?"

"I don't, but I have a guess. And I'm going to find out if I'm right."

"I'm coming with you."

" _No,_ you're staying here."

"You can't leave me!" Raivis cried, voice shrill with terror. "What if Russia comes and—and—" He pressed a hand to his mouth.

Eduard knelt in front of his brother and held him by the shoulders. "You don't have to worry about that. I'm going to find Toris, and I'm bringing him back. No matter what happens do _not_ follow me, understand?"

"What if I hear… screams—"

"What did I say?"

Raivis bit his lip, then his fists tightened around Eduard's sleeves. "Be careful," he whispered.

Eduard didn't have the heart to tell Raivis what he had witnessed earlier that day. The scene in the kitchen was a good indication that Toris hadn't escaped at all—this was just another one of his routine "visits" to Russia's room.

Only now, Eduard was sure these trips were voluntary.

It wouldn't be the first time—Toris and Russia had fallen in love shortly after they moved into Russia's Petersburg Estate. Since then, uprisings, revolutions, and wars had twisted their relationship into something Eduard would never understand. But he hadn't seen Toris this close to their master since the Napoleonic Wars, and that worried him. After everything Russia had done, how could Toris possibly fall for him again?

Eduard grit his teeth; Raivis's reaction alone was enough to prove that it was too dangerous to fool around. _But if Toris is doing this of his own free will, maybe I could convince him to stop._

Eduard slipped from his brother's grip and rose to his feet, then strode out of the room without looking back. He leapt up the stairs two at a time and broke into a run headed for Russia's room.

Eduard's footsteps echoed in the dark halls, hazy moonlight throwing shadows across the floor. His eyes adjusted enough to make out the sudden turns, and the polished wood of furniture and glass glinted from passing entryways. Eduard hated the mansion at night—he felt as though he were wading through the intestines of a great beast.

_Toris wasn't in the kitchen so he's already on his way. I'll be lucky if I even get there in time._

As he rounded a corner towards the back of the mansion, he spotted a slim silhouette with shoulder-length hair. Eduard skidded to a stop, hands on his knees as he tried to steady his harsh breathing.

The silhouette froze, then spun around. "Eduard? What are you doing here?"

Eduard strode towards his brother, mind reeling with all the things he could say. He decided to take the easy route first. "Raivis is worried about you," he panted. "You should come back to our room."

Toris took a step back, and in the darkness Eduard saw his posture stiffen. "I can't."

"Toris, please—"

"You know I can't, Eduard." There was a sharpness to his voice that Eduard recognized from their earlier argument. "Go back, tell Raivis you didn't get to me on time."

Eduard's stomach clenched; of course it would take more to persuade him. One question burned in his mind—the question he had wanted to ask for six years, yet he feared the answer to, the question that would throw all of the carefully-drawn boundaries and protocols of the Soviet Union into complete ruin. And before Eduard could stop himself, the words rolled off his tongue:

"Do you love him?"

Toris’s response was a breath of disbelief: " _What?"_

"I saw you and Russia in the kitchen today. There's no point in hiding it anymore. The way you defend him, the way you look at him… it's obvious."

Toris seemed so taken aback, he was unable to answer. To Eduard, the stunned silence just proved he was right.

"It's nothing but a game to him, don't you see? He's using you as a tool to exercise his power. I don't know what he's said or done to make you think this way, but the fact that you can even defend his actions is proof he's been getting inside of your head! What would your people think, if—"

"My people are not here, Eduard," Toris whispered, his voice soft and patient. "And neither are yours, and neither are Raivis's. The only 'people' we have in this place are each other, _you_ are the ones I find myself responsible for. If I could afford for my people to be my first priority, then—" his voice cracked. "I've made that mistake before and I won't be making it again. You two are all I have left. If I lose you, I lose everything."

Eduard was confused; what did that have to do with Russia? "If you're so worried about losing us, then why are you going to _him?_ We don't know what Russia is doing, and playing along with his power games is only going to make things worse!"

A bitter smile; the fact that his brother could even make such an expression was sickening to Eduard. Had Toris been so conditioned to this that he thought it was _funny?_

"I wish it were that simple."

"Well then help me to understand! Why do you keep doing this, why do you let him control you? You never ask for help, you never speak a word about it, you go willingly. It's almost as if you want things to stay the same so that—so that you can _be with him!"_

Something seemed to snap within Toris. Two gleaming emeralds bore into him through long bangs, a look that Eduard recognized as a warning. "Go back, and tell Raivis that you were too late."

"Toris, I only want to help—"

" _Zostaw, Estonia!"_

The harsh command in Polish took Eduard aback. He himself had never been under Polish-Lithuanian rule, but the fact that Toris invoked old authority proved it didn't matter whose subordinate Eduard had been. The point was that Toris had been a superpower for centuries, while Eduard had bowed his head and followed orders.

The insult stung; it was one thing to be snapped at by a former ruler, but Toris had taken his subservient history and thrown it in his face. _I don't even speak Polish,_ Eduard fumed, but he had gotten the message.

Without a word, Eduard turned on his heel and stalked down the hall. Yet again, it seemed his older brother had thrown logic out the window in the name of— _What? Romantic whims?_ —and when confronted about it, had fallen back to his former status to push Eduard away. He ground his teeth, nails digging into his palms.

 _Someday, I'll be free of this hellish place_ _—_ _and I'll prove to everyone that I'm not just another subordinate._

* * *

_The mansion was quiet._

_Toris looked around at the china plates scattered with half-eaten pastries, ashtrays overflowing with used cigarette butts, and mountains of empty vodka bottles. Bright red banners embroidered with Soviet victory slogans sagged from the windows, torn by too many nations who had consumed too much alcohol. Each profile of Lenin had been defaced with a handlebar mustache_ _—_ _the work of Feliks, no doubt_ _—_ _and "FUCK NAZIS" had been painted on the wall with what looked like red wine._

 _After a slow morning of hangovers and teary goodbyes, Russia's "Victory Day" party guests had trickled out of the mansion to catch trains and flights back to their territories. But as Toris stood with his brothers in the aftermath, the feeling that hung in the air was not one of celebration_ _—_ _it was one of the utmost dread._

 _It seemed the entire continent was hailing the war's end as a chance for new hopes and beginnings_ _…_ _but the Baltic States found themselves in exactly the same place as when it had begun. As the three of them stared numbly at the mess surrounding them, that fact truly settled for the first time. The end of this war was nothing like the end of the Great War. There would be no independence. They would not be going home. And judging by how strong the Soviet Union had become, they would not be going home for a very long time._

_Toris was the first to break the silence. "I'll be back," he muttered, turning to make his way towards his master's office._

_Five years ago when he had first arrived in the Soviet capital of Moscow_ _—_ _back when a sleazy deal had kept the Nazis off Red soil while they sawed Feliks in half_ _—_ _Toris had spat in Russia's face and told his master he would never obey him. He endured weeks of agonizing torture as his punishment_ _—_ _more intense and strategic than any beating he had ever received._

 _But Toris suffered knowing that there was an end in sight_ _—_ _that it was only a matter of time before the Nazis invaded and Ivan would be forced to send him to the front. Back then, he had been willing to let the demon of national pride take priority over himself, or even his brothers_ _—_ _because there had been a_ chance.

 _But this was not 1940. The war was over, Europe was in ruins, and the only competing power lay across the Atlantic Ocean. No_ _…_ _it would be decades, maybe even a hundred years before the next opportunity came. And Toris knew he didn't have the strength to fight that long._

_He stood at the oak doors to Ivan's office, staring at the floor and commanding himself not to throw up. He took a deep breath and rapped on it three times._

" _Come in."_

 _Toris pushed the door open and stepped inside, pulling it behind him with a_ thunk _that echoed through the room. A thick silence hung in the air, a pair of glowing violets studying him in the dark. He could sense Ivan was unsure how to tread around his newly reclaimed subordinate._

" _Have you come to declare your hate for me?"_

_Toris said nothing._

_Ivan slowly rose from his chair and strode towards him. "Have you come to spit on me, insult me, to declare war between us?_ _“_ _A gloved hand snatched Toris's cheekbones and he was forced to look up into violet eyes swirling with the madness of battle. "Because I have been fighting a war for four years now, Little One, in such wretched conditions that you couldn't bear me to describe them, against horrors the likes of which this world has never seen. And I_ won."

_The fingers digging into his jaw pulled Toris closer, forcing him to take a step forward. "Are you so sure you want to be picking a fight with me this time, Litva?"_

" _Let go of me."_

_Fire raged in those eyes. "I will rip this jaw from your skull, little boy."_

" _Let go of me, and I will give you an answer."_

_Ivan's eyes narrowed to glowing slits, then he released his grip. Toris took a breath to collect himself, then looked his new master straight in the eye._

" _I will obey you. Your word is my command, and I will not question it nor defy it. You may do to me whatever you wish_ _—_ _sleep with me, beat me. My body is yours to take_ _…_ _under one condition."_

_Ivan's eyebrows shot up; he clearly had not expected any of those words to come out of Toris's mouth. "And what is that, Little One?"_

_Toris glared up at the man who had been his captor for over a century, who had raged against him and his brothers until the floors were slick with blood. This was the only way he knew how to protect them, the only way to gain any control over their helpless situation. Toris had failed his brothers once_ _…_ _and he would not make that mistake again, no matter the cost._

_"That you swear not to harm my brothers. No whips, no riding crops, no kicks or slaps or punches. If I see so much as a bruise or black eye, I will fight you with every fiber of my being until there is no flesh left for you to strip from my body, until you've clawed every last bit of pleasure from me and there is not a drop left for you. I will hate you more than I've hated anything, and I will spend every second of every day in this house reminding you of that._

" _You can lock me up, you can beat me and starve me and taunt me with all of the food and pleasure in the world_ _—_ _but I_ will not break _. I will never stop hating you, I will never stop fighting back until the Soviet Union crumbles beneath your feet and I walk out of this mansion a free-willed and independent nation."_

_Ivan's gaze was unwavering as he processed Toris's words. "But even if I agree not to touch them, I could still do all of those things to you."_

" _Yes. And I would hold out my hands for you to clap in irons, I would scream exactly like you want me to."_

 _Ivan seemed hesitant with his next question. "_ _…_ _And the sex?"_

" _As much and as often as you want."_

" _And all I have to do is not lay a hand on Estonia and Latvia."_

" _Not a single bruise."_

_Ivan's lips spread into a wicked smile, his eyes alight with a mixture of lust and triumph. "We have an agreement, then."_

" _I'm very serious about this, Russia."_

 _The smile only grew wider. "So am I. I am willing to comply with the terms, Litva_ _…_ _but are you?" Ivan stepped around Toris and traced a finger down his back, sending an ice-cold shudder down his spine." If I sense that you are disobeying me, even indirectly, if I catch any sign of betrayal or disloyalty from you_ _…_ _"Hot breath tickled Toris's ear as Ivan whispered, "Your brothers will wish you had_ never _made this deal."_

_Toris forced himself not to flinch. He understood the gravity, the impossibility, the humiliation of what awaited him. He understood that he would have to suck up every drop of pride he had gained during his time away from Ivan, every scrap of national identity and free will. There would be no more escapes, no secret rendezvous or correspondence. He would be completely cut off from his people, submitting himself to a brainwashing process that could very well be permanent._

_He was quite literally selling his soul to the devil._

" _I wonder_ _…_ _" Two giant hands came to rest on Toris's shoulders, the grip tightening so that his muscles popped beneath them. "What will you do if I command you to love me?" Ivan's deep chuckle reverberated through his bones. He let go and spun Toris around, extending a gloved hand. Toris locked eyes with his master as he took hold of it and shook._

" _Deal?" Ivan said, that wicked smile still on his face._

" _Deal," Toris whispered, understanding that was the last free word he would speak in a century._

" _Now, Litva_ _…_ _take off your shirt. I want to see if those beautiful scars are still there."_

* * *

Golden sunlight made colors swirl on the inside of Toris's eyelids. He was enveloped in a soft warmth, so pleasant compared to the usual biting cold of his own bed.

His eyes fluttered open to see a pale muscular arm draped over his bare chest, and he was suddenly aware of the heat of skin-on-skin along his back and legs. He could feel the steady rise and fall of Ivan's breathing in rhythm with the heat on the back of his neck.

No matter how many times he woke up in this very position, Toris was never prepared for the onslaught of conflicting emotions that tormented him. Guilt, self-hate, disgust, horror, regret… Eduard's voice echoed in his mind from the night before: " _Do you love him?"_

Toris's throat tightened and he balled his fists around the sheets. _No, I don't love him. I hate him for doing this to me, for everything he's taken away from me._

But what stung him in that hallway had not been the accusation of love—it had been the suggestion that he was preserving the status quo to 'be with Russia.' Not be in _love_ with Russia as a romantic couple, but to be _with_ Russia, here, in this warm bed where the chill of Siberia couldn't touch him, away from the prying eyes of the secret police, enveloped in sinewy arms that would rip apart anyone who dared touch him.

And in a backwards way, Toris knew that Eduard had spoken the truth.

The usual protests screamed inside of his head: _What would my people think? What would Feliks think? What would America think, after all he taught me?_

All of the anxieties and fears that melted away under the covers, that flew from his mind when warm lips breathed " _Litva"_ into his neck— _his_ name, and nobody else's. The sensation of looking into Ivan's eyes and feeling wanted—no, _desired_ by the most powerful nation in the world. It was the one sliver of pride Toris had left, and he clung to it with a fierceness that would be impossible to explain to his brothers or to his people.

What had begun as an obligation now was his only means of escape. He leaned into Ivan's touch, some nights he even begged for it—it was the only thing that could make him forget the pain. But all of the weight that he tried to push away in those brief moments of ecstasy came crashing onto him the morning after, and Toris would wake up finding himself just as he was the day before: A subordinate at the mercy of his master.

A soft moan rumbled through the mattress, and he felt the burn of Ivan's gaze. His breath caught in his throat when rough fingers laced through his hair.

"Kak krasivi," Ivan whispered.

Toris tensed when warm lips pressed softly against his forehead, then the arm was removed from his chest and the warmth disappeared with the creaking of bed springs. He listened to the thump of bare feet making their way to the adjoining bathroom. The door opened, then closed, and he waited until he could hear the steady spray of shower water.

Toris flung aside the bed sheets. His head spun as he staggered to a pile of clothing on the floor, reaching down to snatch up his pants. He pulled them on as quickly as he could, fingers trembling so much that he struggled to snap them closed.

He strode to the mirror hanging above Ivan's dresser to check for any marks on his body. Toris winced—his hair was a ruffled mess dried with sweat, light red teeth marks peppering his neck and chest.

Toris turned to check his back, although it was difficult to pick out any marks among the twisted scar tissue. Below the curvature of his spine, a sickle and hammer were branded onto the skin—another 'gift' he had acquired from his time in the dungeon. He tried not to look at it often, but each time he was haunted with a sickening _hiss_ and stench of burning flesh… the alternative to following Ivan's orders.

Toris shuddered as he picked up his shirt from the floor and put his arms through the sleeves, buttoning up the front to hide his branded body and dragging his fingers through tangled hair. He knew if he spent too much time thinking about the consequences, he would never go through with this plan.

Toris glanced at the bathroom door where the spray of shower water still echoed. _I only need a few minutes._

Ivan's room lived up to its purpose as the master's chambers. An elegant four-poster bed stood in the center, draped with velvet canopy curtains. To the right was a sitting area—several chairs centered around a coffee table stacked with Soviet newspapers. A porcelain vase stood in the center, sunflower petals filtering the morning light that poured in through the tall windows. French doors opened to a balcony which looked out onto the snowy fields of Ivan's property. For now it was unused, but during the summer Toris would untangle himself from his master to step outside for a smoke.

The room was clean of any used vodka bottles, a sign things were going relatively well for Ivan at work. Even so, scuffs and dents scarring the walls and furniture were a grim reminder of previous temper tantrums… a few to which Toris had been an unlucky witness. Glancing at the curved indents worn into the bed posters, Toris shuddered. He had spent _much_ more time in this bedroom than he would ever like to admit.

Toris strode back to Ivan's dresser. Various photographs were pinned onto the wall by the mirror—one of Ivan and his sisters, Ukraine beaming while Natalia glared straight into the camera. For a moment Toris felt the Belarusian’s cold gaze was directed at him, and he quickly looked away.

There was a much older picture of everyone in front of the Winter Palace—the Baltic States, Feliks, Ivan's sisters, Moldova, and Finland. More photographs showed the Central Asian countries in their national dress, in another Ivan was crushing Georgia, Armenia, and Azerbaijan into a hug—Toris wondered if the shocked anger on their faces was because a giant Russian was hugging them, or the fact that he was forcing them to hug each other.

He knew somewhere hidden in this room was an icon of the Virgin Mary and a photograph of the Romanov children…both strictly forbidden by the Soviet government. But he wasn't looking for those.

Toris slid aside bottles of cologne to open a small drawer. He glanced at the contents—combs, spare keys, more photographs… He opened a second drawer to find it stuffed with military medals.

_Even if these drawers have false bottoms, he wouldn't put it there. He would need to get to it easily._

Toris turned to face the bed, taking note of the considerable stack of books on the side table. He crossed the room and picked up the first one, flipping through the pages until he came across a small brass key fastened to a rope. Out of curiosity, Toris glanced at the poem's title— _Of course._

 _The Twelve_ by Alexander Blok was one of Ivan's favorites. His master may be clever, but when it came to literature the Russian was hopelessly sentimental. Toris huffed as he recalled the night when a drunk Ivan had recited every single Pushkin poem from memory. A much, _much_ longer time ago Toris would even be denied sex in favor of just _one more chapter_ from whatever new novel Ivan had become obsessed with. If he complained too much Ivan would read it aloud in French so that he couldn't understand, much to the Russian's amusement.

The sound of water shutting off from the bathroom jolted Toris from his thoughts—he didn't have much time.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a key identical to the one on the rope. Only a few months ago Ivan had returned rather drunk from a celebration at the Kremlin, and among his mindless ramblings had shown Toris his "little secret"—a key, Ivan had said, which would open the dungeon door. But Toris had known his master was lying… because on the particularly memorable nights when even the scarf came off, he had watched Ivan slip a key over his neck right afterwards.

Now seeing them side-by-side, Toris's hunch was confirmed: The key Ivan had showed him was only a decoy, and the real one hung on a necklace he wore as religiously as the scarf. It made sense why his master would go to such lengths to hide it, as the dungeon concealed Ivan's closest guarded secret: A nation representative he had tricked the world into believing was dead.

Toris's fingers trembled as he untied the knot of the rope and pulled off the first key. He shoved it into his pant pocket, making sure it was impossible to see through the pressed fabric. Then he took the second one and looped it through, careful to tie the knot exactly as he had left it. Toris placed the rope back into the book and snapped it shut, then rushed to the dresser where he slid Ivan's cologne bottles back into place.

He took a step back to eye his handiwork—one misstep and Ivan would become suspicious. It was much too early in the game for that; if Toris made a mistake here, the plan would be ruined.

For a moment he locked eyes with a Lenin bust and quickly looked away— _Don't be stupid, he's been dead for almost thirty years._ Toris understood why Ivan's room was one of the few in this house lacking a portrait of Stalin—it was much less unnerving to have a dead dictator watching you sleep than the current one.

Deciding all was in order, Toris began the ritual of peeling off the sheets and tossing them into a heap on the floor. He cursed at the tremor in his hands—Ivan couldn't know that he was nervous! With a flourish he flung out a fresh sheet, watching it drift slowly to the mattress.

Toris was so immersed in his thoughts, he jumped when the bathroom door opened.

"Good morning," he stammered, glancing at Ivan's figure in the doorway. The Russian resembled a vandalized marble statue, pale muscles rippling beneath scars of the past. His silver blonde hair dripped from the shower, and the ever-present woolen scarf hung from his thick neck. Even after all these years, Toris couldn't deny the Russian was handsome… but he knew those muscles had been carved from centuries of slashing men open on the battlefield.

"Morning," Ivan rumbled, his voice still scratchy. He sent Toris a tired smile before striding to the dresser.

Toris held his breath, but seconds passed with no noticeable reaction. Realizing it was suspicious to stare, he averted his gaze and tucked in the sheet.

_The key isn't enough._

If the plan was going to work, Toris needed to ask Ivan to hold a meeting. He knew he was walking on thin ice—sleeping with other nations for political favors was viewed as scandalous, even outside of the Soviet Union. He had to play this off as a casual conversation without it looking like he was putting ideas into Ivan's head.

Toris was so distracted, he barely noticed when Ivan let the towel fall to the floor. He hurriedly looked back towards the bed, waiting until he heard the rattle of a belt buckle before attempting to start this conversation.

"I was listening to the radio the other day," he began, throwing out the second sheet. "They were talking about some big meeting in Paris."

Ivan hummed in acknowledgment, voice muffled by the woolen sweater he pulled over his head.

"It seemed a lot of nations were there—America, France, Britain… how many countries are in NATO again?"

Ivan's head emerged from the sweater, his hair ruffled. "Twelve. Nyet—now it's fourteen, just this year Greece and Turkey joined that military cult."

Toris glanced back to the bed as he made his way around, tucking the sheet under the mattress. "And how many European allies do we have? Seven, right?"

"Da. But I like to think of it as more than that—counting all of the republics, we make twenty-two." Ivan picked up the scarf which he had carefully folded even for the short amount of time he was forced to remove it. He wound it around his neck in a well-practiced motion; Toris couldn't help but stare at the rigid scars that disappeared behind the fabric.

"Why do you ask?"

"Well… I just thought it strange that I never hear you talk about meetings with our allies. If there are only eight of you, shouldn't it be easier to organize one?"

Ivan pulled at the scarf until he was satisfied with its position. He tossed the edge over his broad shoulder and smoothed it free of any wrinkles. "This is not some discussion panel, Litva, it is a chain of command that starts less than a thirty-minute drive from my home. To hold a meeting would be a complete waste of time and energy."

Toris's shoulders slumped as he realized how much it made sense. Of course Ivan wouldn't need to hold a meeting—the Kremlin controlled everything, so why bother? "But… aren't you worried that NATO is getting stronger?"

"As long as Amerika keeps shitting out nuclear weapons, da, they are getting stronger. And… yes, I would say this worries me sometimes." Ivan turned to send Toris a warm smile. "But this is my job, not yours, da? I am always working with my officials to make sure our family is protected."

"But what if you're missing something?" Toris pressed. He knew he was treading on dangerous ground, but he couldn't give up, not when he had gotten this far. "The satellite states are closer to the West, what if they hear some information or secret plans? How would you know to prepare if you never met as a group to discuss it?"

Ivan narrowed his eyes. "Have _you_ heard something, Litva?"

"What? No! I was just saying that maybe there's a balance between centralized decisions and cooperation between allied states—"

Ivan let out a low grumble and pulled open a drawer. "The importance of 'balance' is irrelevant, Litva. I can't control it. Besides, even if I were to hold such a meeting, it would have to be approved by Comrade Stalin himself." Judging by the gruff tone of his voice, this was a step Ivan was far from willing to take.

Toris mentally cursed. He had completely forgotten that setting up a meeting involved more than convincing Ivan—he would have to face the Communist dictator himself. His eyes fell to the floor. "Of course, sir." Ivan hadn't even _considered_ holding a meeting! Even if he needed Stalin's permission, it wouldn't hurt to ask!

"You've never asked about my policies before," Ivan said, gaze meeting Toris's in the mirror. "Why the sudden interest?"

Toris forced himself to focus; if he became too distracted Ivan would know something was going on. "I-I just… to see the NATO countries all gathering under one roof, and to not ever hear of anything like that here…it made me nervous."

Ivan was strapping on his watch, but his arm fell as Toris saw his eyes widen in the mirror. The Russian turned and strode towards him, eyes alight with a familiar glow.

Toris stood and braced himself, eyes fluttering shut as the Russian's shadow fell over him. Warm hands cupped around Toris's thighs, and he took in a sharp gasp as his master easily lifted him from the floor. His legs pressed around the Russian's torso, arms falling to rest on broad shoulders. It was a rare moment in which Toris was taller than Ivan; he looked down to see violet irises searching his own.

"I swear to you, Litva: As long as I am alive, nobody but me will touch you."

Toris swallowed. Ivan had said those words with such tenderness, as though Toris was the most precious thing to him in the world. But he had learned the hard way the true possessiveness lurking behind them… Scar tissue roughing against the fabric of his shirt was proof of that.

Toris lifted his hand from Ivan's shoulder to tuck a silver lock of hair behind his ear. "I know." Positioned the way they were, Toris knew Ivan couldn't reach up to kiss him. So he filled the space—only a slight dip of his neck, and a soft warmth pressed into him as their lips met. A contented hum from Ivan proved the distraction had worked.

_I need more time!_

The plan would never work without a reason for Prussia's release—what use was the key to them now? His mind raced through the possibilities—perhaps he could coax Ivan back to bed and bring up the issue again, maybe alcohol would weaken his resolve… 

Thick fingers dug into Toris's thighs, and he hooked his ankles behind Ivan's back to get more leverage as he pressed _closer,_ deepening the kiss…

 _Maybe I would have had better luck bringing it up last night_ _…_ _but if he had realized what I was doing, I would have been completely trapped_ _…_

The sharp sting of teeth cutting into his neck snapped Toris from his thoughts.

_Dieve, what am I doing?!_

At this rate Ivan would have him back in bed before he could even get started with breakfast. If his request didn't work the first time, he doubted more intimacy would change that.

"Ivan," Toris gasped, fingers tightening around the scarf. A deep hum rumbled through him, warm lips moving down his neck.

" _Ivan,"_ Toris said, more firmly this time. He pushed at the Russian's shoulders, lifting his head out of reach. Ivan looked disappointed; clearly his master would have been happy had they remained in that position a few minutes longer.

"Sorry," Toris flashed a weak smile. "If you want breakfast, you'll have to let me go."

For a moment it seemed as though Ivan considered keeping him there, but Toris was not the only one with a long day of work ahead of him. Broad shoulders slumped with a reluctant, "Da."

Hands loosened around Toris's thighs, and slipped to his abdomen as he halfway fell to the floor. There was a quick rush of heat that Toris did his best to ignore; he knew Ivan felt it, too.

"I had fun tonight, Litva."

Toris didn't know how long he could keep faking smiles. A quick nod, then he straightened his ruffled shirt and strode out of the room. When the door slammed shut behind him, he pounded a fist on the wall.

_Dammit, I was so close!_

Toris shoved a hand into his pocket, fingers curling around the cool metal of the key.

"I didn't just do this for nothing," he muttered, glaring at Ivan's bedroom door through tangled bangs. "We need that damn meeting."

* * *

HISTORY NOTES

**Moscow or Petersburg?**

Russia's mansion is currently in Moscow, but the characters used to live in the "Petersburg Estate." This is because Saint Petersburg was the capital of Imperial Russia from 1721 up until the Empire's collapse in 1917. After the Russian Revolution, Lenin moved the capital of the Soviet Union to Moscow. Thus, the mansion in this story is just over 30 years old, and the Baltics have only lived there for a total of 8 years. (1940, 1945-52)

**Why can't Eduard speak Polish?**

Contrary to Hetalia canon, it makes little sense that Eduard would have ever been a part of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth. At the time, the current territories of Latvia and Estonia were split into three main regions: Livonia, Courland, and Estonia. While Livonia and Courland were passed from the Commonwealth to Sweden in 1629, the Duchy of Estonia had already been in Swedish control since 1558.

**Victory Day**

What is called "VE Day" in the West is referred to in Russian as "Den' Pabyedi," or "Victory Day." It is celebrated on May 9, and marks the day that the Nazis signed an unconditional surrender, thus ending four years of brutal warfare that threatened the Soviet Union's very sovereignty. Everyone gets off work, veterans are honored as national heroes, and huge parades and fireworks are put on display. It is often referred to as a sacred holiday, and is key to understanding Russian mentality and view on the war. (Toris's flashback marks the first time the Eastern European nations celebrated Victory Day, which didn't happen until August of 1945.)

**Europe in 1945**

The end of WWII marked the beginning of a new era—one in which the previous European powers were in shambles, and the United States and the Soviet Union rose as the next hegemons. This was unfortunate for the Baltic States, who had hoped the Allies would protect them from yet again being occupied by Stalin's harsh regime. But since the USSR was crucial in winning the war, the U.S. and UK were willing to make concessions to keep Stalin happy. This involved handing the Baltic States right back to the Soviets.

**Russian Literature**

Since the press has always been highly censored in Russia, creative writing became the only way for readers to connect with a "truth," or to have an outlet for how the felt about the government. Creative writing, whether prose or poetry, was a highly esteemed profession in 19th and 20th century Russia, and it was common for Russian/Soviet soldiers to bring poetry books with them onto the battlefield. Even today you won't meet a single Russian who hasn't memorized at least several poems (usually Pushkin) by heart.

**NATO**

The North Atlantic Treaty Organization was a military alliance founded in 1949 "to keep the Russians out, the Americans in, and the Germans down." Their most influential member was the United States, who was pumping massive amounts of money into the development and expansion of its nuclear arsenal. Tensions escalated in the 50's when the Korean war proved Communist countries could pose a united threat. The first major NATO maritime exercises began in 1952, and Greece and Turkey joined the alliance that same year. By that time, Eastern Europe had solidified into an "Eastern Bloc" of Communist USSR-allied countries, but they had yet to form a military alliance of their own. This would happen three years later in 1955, with the creation of the Warsaw Pact.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're interested in how Toris and Ivan first fell in love, you can read my story [Venice of the North: A Love Story.](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/11457199/1/Venice-of-the-North-A-Love-Story) It has a few historical inaccuracies, but the main idea is there. 
> 
> Thanks for reading, and comments are so appreciated!


	4. Alus — Beer

Eduard didn't mind paperwork. In fact, there was plenty of glory to be had in paperwork. It eased the mind, helped sort out his organizational ticks, and made him feel as though he was contributing to his government—

"Except this paperwork isn't contributing to anything _,"_ he grumbled to himself.

Despite the fact that Russia's mansion was a madhouse, there was order to how things were done. The Baltics shared the weight of running the household, each with their own responsibilities.

Most of Raivis's work involved cleaning. The Latvian had scrubbed, dusted, and polished every centimeter of the mansion a hundred times over. This was partially the reason for the frequent number of broken dishes on his watch—the poor boy spent so much of his time clutching rags and scrub brushes that Eduard wasn't surprised when he lost his grip on a plate every now and then.

Even so, playing janitor had its advantages: Raivis knew the mansion better than any of them, even Russia. He knew exactly which artifacts were in each room, and more importantly, the quickest ways to get from one point in the mansion to another. Eduard had seen his brother materialize seemingly out of nowhere, then dart back to the other side of the mansion in a matter of seconds. This _would_ be a useful survival skill… if only the boy wasn't so terrified of Russia that he froze up whenever he got in trouble.

Toris's workplace was the kitchen. Cooking for Russia's household was no easy task, and the over the years the Lithuanian had perfected almost every Russian recipe. Even in times of deadly food shortages, Toris somehow managed to make the most amazing borscht Eduard had tasted. Russia trusted Toris the most, so it was also his job to run to the city and pick up groceries.

Eduard was envious of his brother's freedom, but Russia was right not to trust him. Given the chance to wander the streets of Moscow, his first stop would be a train headed for Tallinn.

Rather than roaming rights, Eduard found himself with the privilege of being designated an office. There was a practical reason for this: Anything involving a pen was his job. Normally he wouldn't mind crunching numbers all day, but checking boxes and scribbling signatures for himself, his brothers, _and_ Russia was a mind-numbing task straight from a nightmare. To make things worse, Russia handled the important documents that actually affected their peoples' lives. All the leftovers—protocols, terms of agreement, and logistics—were dumped onto Eduard's desk. Sometimes the mountain of paperwork was so high, he spent days organizing it all.

After countless hours of being force-fed legal jargon, Eduard's Russian vocabulary was much more sophisticated than his brothers'. Not only that, but he knew what made the Soviet Union tick. He understood the ins and outs of their legal system, and kept a secret journal of all the loopholes. That's what had given him the idea of releasing Prussia from the dungeon… but of course, it was a useless plan.

Eduard threw his pen onto the desk and flipped open his notebook for the umpteenth time that morning. There _had_ to be something in here that would help him come up with another plan! He thumbed through the pages, scanning the titles written in Estonian so only he could read them:

 _How to shorten a car purchase wait. Things only forbidden in Moscow. Acceptable landlord bribes. Acceptable_ _MGB_ _bribes. Acceptable politician bribes. Acceptable_ _…_

Eduard groaned and snapped the journal shut. A whole day had gone by, and he _still_ couldn't think of anything else! He slammed his fist onto the desk with such force that a jar of pens tipped over, and they clattered to the floor. Eduard muttered under his breath, rising from his chair and crouching on his hands and knees to pick them up from the marble tile.

Just then there was a knock at the door. Eduard scrambled to his chair and shoved the pens back into the jar. He opened a file cabinet, tossing the notebook inside before slamming it shut. He flattened his hair and snatched up a pen, bending over the desk to finish a signature. "Come in."

A low creak echoed through the room as the door swung open. Eduard tensed, unsure of what to expect after their harsh argument the night before. Toris stepped into the room and closed the door softly behind him. Wet hair glistened in the morning light, and Eduard caught the sweet scent of soap and shampoo. Toris's collar was flipped up to hide the skin, but as he drew closer Eduard noticed red circles splotching his neck.

An awkward silence settled between the two of them.

"Can we talk?" The Lithuanian's voice was back to its gentle tone, absent of the venom from the night before.

A part of Eduard dreaded this conversation, but he knew it was pointless to refuse. "Of course." He gestured to an extra chair in the corner, watching in silence as Toris pulled it up to face his desk. The Lithuanian took a seat, hands clasped tightly between his knees.

"I wanted to apologize for my outburst last night. Whatever—'authority' I may try to invoke over you or Raivis no longer exists. We are equals, and it was wrong of me to forget that."

Eduard found it strange they were still having this conversation when the Commonwealth had been disbanded for almost two centuries. Even after so many years of being under Russia's control, Toris still held remnants of his previous authority. It was said that once a nation tasted true power, they never forgot it—perhaps not even Toris was an exception to that rule.

"Thank you," he muttered. Eduard felt as though he should apologize as well, but Toris wasn't taking back his decision to be with Russia. Nor did he seem to expect an apology, which Eduard saw as proof that he had been right. Silence settled around them once again—Eduard hoped his brother would move on from this uncomfortable topic. In his desperation to ease his nerves, he twirled the pen between his fingers.

"I didn't just disagree with your plan because I hate Prussia."

Eduard blinked; Toris wanted to talk about the plan? "Don't worry about it. You were right, it would have never worked."

"That's my point. Initially, I had thought it wouldn't work because Prussia is a monster incapable of thinking of anyone else besides himself. Well—" Toris smiled bitterly, "That is true. But even a monster will agree to do anything if he benefits from it."

The pen stopped in Eduard's hand as he realized where Toris was going with this. "A bribe."

"We need something to hold over his head… but any negotiations are useless if we try to make them while he's blinking in the first sunlight he's seen in seven years."

Eduard stared at Toris a moment before it dawned on him what his brother was suggesting. "You're saying that—that we go down into the dungeon and _talk_ to him?"

"No, I'm saying _you_ go down into the dungeon and talk to him. If memory serves, you and Raivis spoke fluent German at the Nazi Estate. Operating in Prussia's native tongue will be a huge advantage to us."

Eduard was surprised that Toris even remembered his second language was German. While the Estonian and Latvian aristocracy had been entirely German-speaking up until the Independence Wars, he and Raivis hadn't spoken it around Toris in over a century.

 _Even at the Nazi Estate we spoke English whenever we could_ _…_ _but I guess he picked up that we had no problems understanding orders._

In truth, Toris probably remembered for the simple fact that he couldn't speak German at all. The Lithuanian had spent those first thirty years in Petersburg completely isolated from Eduard and Raivis's conversations. It was only after Russia cracked down on the "language rule" that Eduard and Raivis reluctantly hit the books. Toris—who by that time had already achieved fluency thanks to his relationship with Russia—had been so desperate to be included, he broke down and wept the first time he heard Eduard and Raivis speaking Russian to each other.

It was the cruelest of ironies: Russification is what made their current brotherly relationship even possible.

"Whether or not I speak German is irrelevant if we can't even get into the dungeon. You know just as well as I do that the only way into that hell pit is the key."

Toris held Eduard's gaze, his face unchanging. Slowly, he reached a hand into his pocket. He placed an object on Eduard's desk, sliding it forward so that it scraped against the wood.

There, sitting on his desk, was a small brass key.

Eduard stared at it, then back up at Toris, then back down at the key. "Mu jumal," he breathed. Horror filled him as he realized how Toris must have obtained it, the image of his brother lunging for the kiss replaying in his memory. Eduard stared at his brother—the wet hair, the collar turned up to hide bite marks splotching his neck…

Suddenly Eduard grew angry—not at Toris, but at himself. How had he allowed this to happen?! If he had known this was the reason, he wouldn't have walked away so easily! "Why didn't you tell me?" he demanded.

"I didn't want to make you choose between Raivis and I. You couldn't have saved us both."

Eduard was horrified his plan could lead to something so disgusting, so _twisted_ as what Toris had done. He shook his head. "No—no, this is wrong. There's another way around this."

Toris raised his eyebrows. "You've thought of another plan?"

"Well… not exactly—"

"Then unless you would rather abandon it, I see no reason for you to refuse."

Eduard's eyes darted from the key to his brother. Only yesterday Toris had grown furious at the mention of Prussia's name, and now he was making such a sacrifice to rescue him? The logic didn't add up. "Why… why would you do this?"

Toris frowned, "What do you mean?"

"The whole purpose of this plan is to find out what Russia did to Raivis, but you don't think he hurt him at all. Yesterday you made it perfectly clear that releasing Prussia from the dungeon was too dangerous. And if what you say is true and you don't love Russia, then—"

Toris sent him a dark look, "I _don't_ love Ivan."

"Well if that's the case then why would you be willing to go to such lengths to help me?"

Toris was silent for some time. His fingers picked at the leather on the chair. "I'm curious to see which one of us is right. I've been wrong about Ivan before; we can never be too cautious. And… there's a possibility that seven years in the dungeon has weakened Prussia. I won't go as far as to say that he's repented, but maybe he'd be willing to help us."

Curiosity and possibility seemed like weak reasons to Eduard. Toris's logic was so skewed that perhaps making these huge sacrifices was worth it to him… but Eduard had the feeling his brother was keeping secrets. Of course the Lithuanian had the right to privacy—even so, it annoyed Eduard that after all these years, they still couldn't be honest with each other. He sighed, deciding it wasn't worth the effort to press for a better answer.

"Alright. I'll talk to Prussia."

A smile flickered across Toris's face. He picked up the key from the desk and tilted it, watching the light play off its surface. "Obviously our leverage is a means of escape from the dungeon—if he agrees to help us, we can arrange for a meeting so Ivan has to release him. That was your plan, correct?"

"Yes, although convincing Russia to hold a meeting might prove difficult."

"I'm working on that. But for now, Prussia doesn't need to know the likelihood of us actually following through."

"And if we don't follow through, he'll just be trapped in the dungeon, so there's no need to worry about him getting revenge."

"Assuming Ivan won't release him later, yes." Toris slid the key across the desk and leaned back in his chair. "There's something else you should know. When you go to the dungeon, you'll need to bring beer with you."

Eduard blinked. "Beer?"

"I know it sounds ridiculous, but trust me. I've sat through enough meetings with that idiot to know any talks without beer are pointless."

Eduard wasn't sure whether to be amused by this or worried—it sounded as though Prussia was just a heavy drinker as Russia. "Well, that's unfortunate. The only alcohol in this house is vodka."

"Maybe not. Do you remember our last business trip to Prague?"

"Yes—remind me to put Raivis on a leash next time."

That was one trip Eduard would never forget. One moment he and his brothers were watching the Astronomical Clock—the next, he turned around and Raivis was gone. Eduard and Toris had spent hours scouring the city in search of their little brother. By the time they finally found him, he was so drunk that Russia had to carry him back to the airport.

Toris flashed a sly smile. "I think I know where you can find your beer."

Eduard made a mental note to track down Raivis as soon as he finished this paperwork. If the boy really was hiding a stash of alcohol, it wouldn't take much for him to blab its location.

"Is there anything else I need to know?"

Toris's expression darkened. "I said there's a possibility that Prussia is weak, but we have to be prepared for the worst. If he's anything like he was seven years ago, he won't hesitate to kill when given the chance."

This confused Eduard even more. _What was all that about 'If I lose you, I lose everything?' And now Toris is sending me down to negotiate with this lunatic!?_

"Then… shouldn't I take a weapon?"

"Mm… no, I think it best that you go unarmed. Any weapon is just a tool for him to use against you. Don't underestimate the power of language; he'll be less likely to attack a German speaker."

 _Didn't stop the Nazis from rolling over my borders_ _…_ _and even my own nobility could tell I had an accent._ Eduard scoffed and shook his head, "This is madness."

"Ivan should be keeping him in chains; just stay away from the back wall. If Prussia is desperate enough, he'll be more than willing to help us." Toris's voice grew quiet as he added, "I was barely in that dungeon for a month and I would have done anything to get out."

Eduard shuddered at the memory of their first year at the mansion in 1940. Toris's punishments for refusing to obey Russia had been so severe that some nights Eduard and Raivis could hear the screams echoing from downstairs. _What must Prussia be like after seven years of that pain?_

"Don't worry, you'll do fine. At this point any threats Prussia makes are fruitless—he's nothing but a shell of what he once was."

Eduard tried to smile but he was sure it came across as a grimace. "I’ll… try to keep that in mind."

There was a moment of silence as the weight of their plan settled in the room.

Eduard knew that by going through with this, they were both choosing to deliberately work behind Russia's back. The consequences of this could be severe; a risk both he and Toris understood they were taking. But at the same time, a new excitement hummed through the air. It had been years since the Baltics had done anything to resist Russia's authority—so long that Eduard had almost forgotten the thrill of it.

Toris broke the silence by clearing his throat. "I'd better start making lunch. I was thinking of having pelmeni, does that sound good?"

Eduard stared at his brother; it seemed the longer they talked, the less Toris made sense. _How can he think_ _about food at a time like this?_

"Yes, that… that sounds good."

Toris rose from the chair, adjusting his collar to conceal the marks on his neck. "I'll send Raivis to get you when lunch is ready."

Eduard's gaze followed his brother as he left the room. Just minutes ago he had been mourning the impossibility of a plan, and now thanks to Toris it seemed as though everything had fallen into place.

"Toris!"

The Lithuanian turned around, his hand on the doorknob.

"Thank you."

Eduard wanted to say more—to let his brother know that whatever he was going through, they could talk about it. But his voice stuck in his throat. How could he—or anyone else for that matter—confront Toris about _that?_

Toris's lips pulled into a weak smile. "Don't thank me yet," he said, before stepping through the door and pulling it shut with a _thunk._

* * *

Raivis clutched the satchel to his chest, muscles tense as he tiptoed down the hall. He kept his ears peeled for any sign of footsteps, listening past the light sloshes coming from the bag.

He always felt so small, even when there weren't other nations around. Everything in the mansion seemed to tower over him—the doorways, the windows, ceilings, bookshelves, portraits… His own home in the Latvian countryside was much more comfortable; almost cozy, stuffed with plush furniture and books. The ceiling was low, and the living room small enough so he could feel the fire's heat from his favorite chair.

It was completely different from Russia's mansion, where despite the countless artifacts and elegant furniture the rooms just felt… _empty._ It was as if the books and fireplaces were only a façade—the same façade that was plastered across Soviet headlines, the same lie that rested in Russia's cheerful voice, so high-pitched and happy as if everything was "okay."

Raivis grit his teeth. Everything was _not_ okay! How was everything okay if his stomach constantly gnawed in hunger? If he couldn't even speak his own language, or have any contact with his people, or control anything that happened to them? How was everything okay, if life here was so horrid that his only escape was alcohol—

 _N_ _ē_ _!_ Raivis's hands tightened around the leather of the satchel. _I can't think that way anymore. If I'm going to figure out what Russia did to me, I need to have a clear head._

He'd spent the last two days struggling to keep his panic at bay, forcing his imagination into submission as it offered up unpleasant images of what Russia could have done while he was drunk.

And if that wasn't bad enough, there was the whole situation with Toris. Ever since the war's end, Raivis had watched his brother drift further and further away, until it felt as if their friendship had reverted back to the early Petersburg days. It wasn't Toris's apparent relationship with Russia that bothered him—it was the _distance_ that had suddenly appeared, an invisible wall Toris had built to keep both him and Eduard out.

Raivis's chest ached just thinking about it; whether with anger or hurt, he wasn't sure. Before the war, he had trusted Toris with his life. But last night, Raivis had been so terrified of Russia's possible appearance, he barricaded the door with his dresser.

 _Why did that I do that? Why was I so_ _…_ _afraid?_

None of this was helped by the fact that Eduard was hiding things from him, too.

_"Raivis what_ _—_ _why can't I open the door?"_

_"Is Toris with you?"_

_"No, he's with Russia."_

_Raivis cracked open the door to peer at an annoyed Eduard standing in the hall._ " _Well_ _…_ _did anything happen? You were gone for a while_ _—_ _"_

" _Nothing happened, I didn't get there on time. Now can I come in, please?"_

Past the irritated glare shot through Eduard's glasses, Raivis had instantly known his brother was lying.

_Why can't they ever tell me anything? Don't they know I'm not a kid anymore?_

It seemed his brothers had forgotten all they had failed to protect him from in the past… not to mention that he'd fought tooth and nail to win independence. Did they really think withholding this small piece of information would scar him further?

_If I can stop drinking, maybe I can prove I'm in control._

Raivis recalled the disappointment in his brothers' eyes as they tried to coax him away from the bottle—not just once, but many times during their life with Russia. Maybe that's why they kept secrets from him—why would they trust a nation who couldn't even control his own addiction?

"This time, _this_ time will be different," he muttered, rounding the corner through a large entryway.

He stepped into an abandoned ballroom; only used when Russia hosted "family reunions" or party guests. A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, throwing miniature rainbows onto the velvet red walls. Windows ran along its length, stretching nearly from floor to ceiling. Past the frozen trees lining the driveway and the ornate iron gate to Russia's property, Raivis could see the hazy skyline of Moscow tucked in a sea of white.

As he neared the windowsill, his vision was flooded with the bright yellows and green patches of Russia's sunflower collection. They lined the windows in a forest of color, broad leaves casting dappled shadows onto the polished wood floor. Although Raivis had spent hours in this room scrubbing the windows and dusting cobwebs from the chandelier, he was strictly forbidden from touching Russia's sunflowers. Tending to them was the only chore his master actually did himself.

Raivis knelt in the shade and unwound the satchel from his shoulders. He placed it on the ground with a faint _clink,_ throwing open the flap and reaching in to pull out a glass bottle. It was slightly battered, the label torn and covered in a fine layer of dust. The liquid inside glowed a warm golden color, white foam bubbling at the surface.

Raivis took a bottle opener from his pocket and pried off the lid with a short _hiss._ "You think it's fun to get me drunk?" he muttered, hovering it over a pot and glaring up at the sunflower petals. "Let's see how _they_ like it."

As Raivis tipped the bottle, golden liquid guzzled out of the neck and into the soil. His heart ached at the sight of it—all that beautiful alcohol he had been so careful to hide, being wasted…

Raivis turned his head away, determined not to change his mind. He shook the last drops into the pot and tucked it back into the satchel. There were at least a dozen beers, and he needed to get rid of them before lunch.

 _Labi,_ he thought, popping the next lid with a hiss. _Once I finish with this, I can hide the satchel in the hall closet. Then I should have enough time to beat the library rugs before_ _—_

"Raivis!"

Raivis's blood ran cold, jerking his head to see the figure standing in the doorway. _Shit, how did I not hear him coming down the hall!?_

Although Estonia and Latvia had been almost in-step over the course of history, Eduard was blessed with something that Raivis lacked: Height. He was the tallest of the Baltics, and always carried himself with impeccable posture.

Looking at Estonia's history, most nations would take Eduard to be a complacent servant. But Raivis had seen first-hand the fire in his brother's eyes during the War of Independence. If it hadn't been for the steely determination of Estonian troops, Raivis may not have been able to win his own freedom.

That is why, upon the sight of Eduard standing in the doorway, Raivis nearly dropped the beer bottle in fright.

"What are you doing?"

"I, um… Well I thought, you know, since we talked about it—um…" Raivis gave up trying to play innocent. "I'm sorry, Eduard, I really wanted to take some home, and I had been saving my money, and—!"

"Is that from Prague?"

Raivis shrank into himself. _I'm dead, I am so dead he is going to kill me!_ "Well…yes, but I'm not drinking it, I swear! I'm never drinking again, Eduard, I promise, I'm getting rid of it, see?" He picked up the bottle and held it over the pot.

" _Wait!"_

Raivis looked up, confused. "What?"

Eduard rushed over and snatched the bottle from his hands. He turned it over and read the label, brow furrowed in concentration. "This is still good. Are there more?"

Raivis's mouth fell open at the unexpected question. He was so confused—why wasn't Eduard launching into a lecture on the pitfalls of alcoholism? "Yeah in the satchel, but I was going to get rid of them, I swear!"

Eduard knelt down, bottles clinking as he sifted through the bag. "In that case, I assume you won't be needing them anymore?"

"Well… no…"

Sharp eyes darted up to meet his. "Then you won't mind if I use them?"

 _Use them? For what?_

Then suddenly Raivis recognized that spark in Eduard's eyes, the excited urgency in his voice. Only one thing ever managed to bring his brother back to his old, innovative self.

"Are you… planning something?"

The hint of a smile rested on Eduard's lips. "More or less." Raivis opened his mouth to ask more, but the Estonian cut in, "And I can't tell you what it is."

Raivis's heart sank. "Oh," he said, eyes falling to his lap. _This again._

"Raivis." Eduard's expression softened. "I know this is frustrating for you. But you're just going to have to trust me."

Raivis appreciated the sympathy, but his brother had it all wrong. Of course he trusted Eduard—the problem was that Eduard didn't trust _him!_

But for all the times Raivis had spoken his mind, he wasn't sure how to communicate this. His history with the Estonian went back over a thousand years. Their relationship didn't start out that great—tribal wars had ravaged the land as they both scrambled for more influence. But that all changed with the Crusades. Raivis and Eduard found themselves at the mercy of greater powers, and so with nobody else to turn to, they became fast friends. Even when they had been split between occupiers, he and Eduard frequently wrote and visited each other, until they readily considered themselves to be brothers.

Eduard had been the most important person in Raivis's life for centuries—protecting him, comforting him, supporting him.

But that's why it stung when his brother seemed oblivious to Raivis's efforts. _Eduard's the one always telling me to stop drinking_ _—_ _does he even care that I'm trying?_

Raivis managed to pull his lips into a faint smile. "I trust you."

Eduard slung the satchel over his shoulder, then glanced at the half-empty bottle of beer. Raivis was surprised when his brother handed it to him. "I'll let you take care of that one." The glint in Eduard's eyes seemed to add, _Since you were going to dump it anyway_ _—_ _isn't that right?_

The unspoken comment felt like a slap to the face. Raivis took the bottle from his brother with a quiet, "Thanks."

Eduard turned to leave, the bottles clinking in the satchel as he made his way towards the ballroom entrance. As Raivis watched him go, his throat clogged with panic.

"Eduard, wait!"

The Estonian turned around, his sharp gaze causing Raivis to fidget.

"Don't—don't drink it, okay? I don't want you to end up like me! Please… just… don't drink it…"

Eduard's face softened. "I know this wasn't your fault, so don't be hard on yourself. We're going to get to the bottom of this."

"You mean you're—"

"Shhh," Eduard placed a finger to his lips, his smile turning mischievous. With that, he turned on his heels and disappeared around the corner.

Raivis stared at the spot where his brother had stood.

_Did that really just happen?_

He sighed, puffing his lips in a pout. It amazed him how he and Eduard were so different. Raivis was an open book—if he was thinking something, it usually came out of his mouth. It had gotten him into trouble with Russia countless times, but also meant Eduard knew pretty much everything about him.

Eduard, on the other hand, was so reserved that often it was impossible to tell what he was thinking. And that bothered Raivis, because he knew the Estonian was _always_ thinking—always calculating or planning or profiling. Raivis had always wondered what it would be like to step into Eduard's mind, to see the vast storage of statistics and logic. But, in the end, Raivis had learned to accept it would only confuse him.

With a sigh, he lifted the last bottle in a toast. "To the success of Eduard's plan… whatever it is. Priekā!"

And before he could change his mind, Raivis put the beer to his lips and drank until there wasn't a drop left.

* * *

HISTORY NOTES

**Eduard's Notebook**

Because production in the Soviet Union was controlled by the State and not by demand, there was often a shortage of consumer products. In order to make a big purchase like a car or an apartment, citizens had to put their names on a waiting list. The average wait for a car was ten years. Similarly, it was also hard to get everyday products in stores. An underground system developed called "blat," in which bartering, favors, or bribing could acquire products that would otherwise be impossible to access. This culture of corruption also permeated Soviet bureaucracy, and bribing became the law of the land in terms of getting anything done.

**How powerful was Lithuania?**

At its height, the Grand Duchy of Lithuania (1236-1569) included present-day Belarus and Ukraine, stretching from the Baltic to the Black Sea. The Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth (1569-1795) was also a force to be reckoned with, having defeated big powers like the Teutonic Knights and the Russians in battle. It should be noted, that both the Duchy and the Commonwealth were multi-ethnic entities, and their rulers often switched between Lithuanians, Poles, Belarusians, and Ukrainians. Thus Toris's high position of power was that of shared partnerships _,_ not absolute rule. (Sources: Trakai Castle Museum, National Historical Museum of the Republic of Belarus)

**Why do Eduard and Raivis speak German?**

What were later to be called "Baltic Germans" appeared in present-day Latvia and Estonia with the Northern Crusades in the 12th and 13th centuries. They systematically conquered and settled the area, founding major trading centers like Riga in 1201. This was the start of 700 years during which the German aristocracy ran infrastructure, education, and government, while the local "Latvian" and Estonian people farmed the land as serfs. Latvian and Estonian were considered to be peasant languages, and German remained the working language of the area until Russification started in the 1880's. Even after serfdom was abolished in 1861, Latvians and Estonians had to change their last names and speak German if they were going to be respected in society.

**Latvian/Estonian Wars of Independence**

Starting in the late 1850's, Latvians and Estonians worked their way into the middle class, and despite resistance from the Baltic Germans, began publishing the first Latvian/Estonian newspapers and formed ethnic student groups. It was during this time that the Latvian/Estonian flags were created. This new national identity, in combination with the collapse of the Russian Empire in 1917, sparked the Latvian and Estonian Wars of Independence. (1918-1920) This was a challenging undertaking for Latvia, whose population had fled to Russia during WWI, and whose main fighting force, The Latvian Riflemen, were in service to the Bolsheviks. In addition, the Baltic Germans were in full support of Imperial Germany and wanted to take over Latvia for themselves. With help from the British fleet, Estonian troops from the North, and Polish troops from the South, the national Latvian forces were able to defeat the Germans, the Bolsheviks, and the Whites in order to secure independence on August 11, 1920. (Sources: _The Latvian Saga_ by Uldis Ģērmanis and _Estonia and the Estonians_ by Toivo U. Raun)


	5. Зима — Winter

Eduard leaned back in his chair and stretched, cracking his knuckles. "Finally done," he sighed.

He stared at the ceiling, feeling the weight of the plan settle in his chest. All day he had been pushing away thoughts of the dungeon, using paperwork as a distraction. But now he would be descending into the blackness in a few hours, and he wasn't ready for it.

Eduard slid out the desk drawer, flipping open his journal and staring at the small key pressed against the page. _My brothers need me, and that's that._

He took the key and slipped it into his pocket, then clicked off the desk light as he stood and made his way to the bedroom. Eduard shivered and hugged himself—even with heating, this house was so cold. It was one of the many things Eduard missed about his home: The winters weren't nearly as harsh, and they certainly didn't crawl in through the windows and send icy prickles up your skin…

Eduard froze, breath catching in his throat. This wasn't just any chill.

The halls grew eerily quiet, as if the very beams and foundation were holding their breath. Then he heard it: A slight crackle, so soft that it flitted like a whisper.

Eduard caught movement out of the corner of his eye and turned to see tendrils of silver creep up the walls, spreading in a fan of delicate ice crystals. A layer of frost crawled across the floor towards him, blanketing the hallway in a thin blue film.

Eduard took a step back. "No," he whispered, breath fogging into a wispy cloud.

_SLAM!_

The front door flew open, and a freezing wind tore through the house. Eduard let out a cry as every bit of warmth was sucked from his body, daggers of ice stabbing into his muscles and bones. He fell to one knee and hugged himself, hair and uniform whipping around him.

The freezing gust swept into the mansion from under the doors and cracks in the windows, snowy mist slithering up the walls and racing in from every direction. Outside the wind shrieked, the trees and mansion groaned under the strain of the freezing maelstrom.

Tears pricked at the corners of Eduard’s eyes and he felt them solidify—ice crystals crawled across his glasses, blinding him. The cold had seized his lungs now, each breath shot stinging needles into his chest. "Stop," he gasped, his voice lost in the howling wind. "Please stop…"

Another door slam shook the house, and all at once the wind vanished. The faint roar of gusts could still be heard, but it was coming from the direction of Russia's room.

 _Better him than us,_ Eduard thought, dreading what it must be like to be trapped in the same room as that force of nature. His hands shook as he removed his glasses, blowing hot air onto the lenses and wiping the frost with his shirt. He shakily stood, teeth clattering as he staggered through the halls.

The mansion resembled an ice palace from a fairytale. The walls glistened with blue frost, icicles adorning the light fixtures. As he entered the foyer, Eduard took a moment to admire the crystal chandelier. The icicles reminded him of a phalanx of spears, poised and ready to drop on the fool who dared walk beneath them.

A small whimper echoed across the foyer. Eduard squinted in the darkness to see a small form crouched on the floor.

"Raivis?"

"I-I-I… I dropped it…"

"Raivis! What are you doing here, you'll freeze!"

"I'm already frozen, genius… Russia's going to kill me!"

Eduard crossed the foyer and spotted a broken picture frame, shards of glass glittering with frost. He held out a hand and hoisted the Latvian to his feet. "It wasn't your fault. Come on, we have to get downstairs."

A deep roar boomed from within the mansion, the walls vibrating with its sheer force of volume. Eduard heard a slight clinking noise, and looked up to see the icicles on the chandelier shuddering. He gasped and snatched Raivis's hand, " _Run!"_

There was a sharp _crack!_ just as he bolted forward.

Raivis screamed.

Icicles hit the floor with a splintering _CRASH_ behind them, the floor shuddering with the impact. Eduard gripped his brother's hand as he pulled him down the stairs, skidding to a halt in front of their bedroom door.

"Are you—alright?" he panted. Eduard glanced over to see that his brother's face was pale blue, curls frozen into icy blue ringlets as his teeth clattered.

Eduard pulled the shivering Latvian to his side. "It's alright," he said. "It was just an accident, we're gonna be alright."

Eduard reached for the door handle just as it swung open. Toris stood with a heavy blanket around his shoulders, face relaxing in relief. "Oh thank god, you're okay! I heard the scream and I thought—"

"Some icicles fell, it just scared us. Raivis needs a blanket, he's not talking."

Toris's eyes widened. "Of course! Here, I got out some extras. And shut the door, we don't want the warm air to get out."

 _Warm air,_ Eduard scoffed. It was just as cold in here as it was outside. Even so, he stepped into the room and pulled the door closed behind him.

Toris came forward with two heavy woolen blankets. He handed one to Eduard, draping the other around Raivis's trembling shoulders. "Here, Raivis, come sit with me. It'll be warmer with both of us." He put a hand around the boy's shoulder and led him to his bed, throwing his own blanket around the two of them. Raivis squeezed his eyes shut and burrowed into the Lithuanian's chest.

Eduard sat on his own mattress, cocooning himself in the blanket. His skin was so numb, all he could feel was the scratching of wool against his neck. Eduard cursed is bad luck. Of all the nights for General Winter to show up, it had to be _tonight?_

Toris seemed to read Eduard's mind. "I was in the kitchen when he came in. He was furious."

Eduard scowled and pulled the blanket tighter around himself. "What did Russia do this time?"

"Nothing Ivan does is good enough for him. It could be anything."

"Well whatever it is, winter's going to suck this year," Raivis whined.

A grim silence settled in the room as they realized what this meant. If General Winter was harsh on Russia, the labor camps in Siberia would be too cold for their people to survive. It seemed the Soviet republics were at the mercy of Winter, helpless as their people froze to death in the Gulags. Eduard grew angry just thinking about it. Couldn't Russia do anything to stop these awful winters?

_Even if he could, he wouldn't change anything. He wants our people to suffer._

" _AAAIAHH!"_

The Baltics exchanged glances—that strangled cry had definitely come from Russia. Wind ripped through the house again, and the door banged open. Eduard ducked under his blanket as icy fingers clawed into the room. Crystals crackled up the walls, the blanket grew stiff with the frosty breath of Winter.

_~Until next time, Little One~_

The words were spoken in the ancient language of nations—a haunting moan, the scrape of wind and ice particles that no human voice could emit.

Howling laughter rattled the walls, then the front door slammed shut and the house grew still.

Eduard's ears rang with the bone-chilling laughter that was somehow even more terrifying than Russia's. He lowered the blanket to see frost melting away, icy patches shrinking into thin puddles of water on the floor. Perhaps the clearest sign of Winter's cruelty was his method of exit—the Season could choose whether to bring the ice with him, or let it stay and turn the mansion into a swamp. Usually the hallways and rooms were left untouched… but Winter deliberately left the frost in the Baltics' room.

"He's such a jerk," Raivis muttered, breaking the silence. "Now my bed's gonna be wet."

"I moved our extra linens to the living room so they won't freeze," Toris said. His eyes flicked up to meet Eduard's. "Do you think you could get them for us, Raivis?"

The boy smirked. "One minute you're hugging me, the next you're sending me off to run errands."

"Raivis—!"

"I was just kidding," Raivis cut in, sliding off the bed. "Eduard just saved me from getting impaled, of course I can get a few blankets."

The patter of his footsteps faded up the staircase.

Toris sighed and tucked a strand of hair behind his ear. "I don't like doing this to him. You know he hates it when we keep secrets."

Eduard removed his glasses and blew hot air onto the lenses. "We keep secrets because _he_ can't. Anything that crosses his mind comes right out of his mouth; the moment Raivis knows the plan, everything is ruined."

Toris seemed to accept this fact with a slight huff, but Eduard could tell he still didn't like keeping Raivis in the dark.

_Hypocrite; it's not like Toris ever tells us anything._

The harsh thought startled him; perhaps he was still annoyed that Toris hadn't shared the real reason behind assisting with the plan. Eduard sighed as he dried his glasses with his shirt. He may as well forget it—Toris was a steel trap when he wanted to be.

The Lithuanian shivered and pulled the blanket tighter around himself. "Did you get the beer?"

"Yes, about half a case." Eduard slipped on his glasses. "You won't believe what I caught Raivis doing today."

"What?"

"I found him pouring beer into Russia's sunflower pots."

At first Toris was shocked, then he seemed to be fighting down a grin. " _What?"_

"He said he was trying to get rid of it, but it would have been much easier to just flush it down a toilet. Do you realize how pissed Russia is going to be when he finds out his sunflowers are dead?" Eduard didn't know why, but he was smiling, too. Perhaps it was the absurdity of the situation. Who would have guessed the most powerful nation in the world could be devastated by a few dead flowers?

"We're safe now; Winter makes a point to freeze them when he stops by. Talk about a stroke of luck…”

"I'm just surprised Raivis was able to part with it in the first place."

Just then the Latvian wobbled in under the weight of an impressive stack of blankets. "Part with what?"

Toris and Eduard shared a glance, then Toris grinned and said, "Your Czech beer."

"Oh."

Eduard sensed a new tension in the room.

Toris's smile faltered. "Raivis, is everything alright?"

The boy snapped to attention, then strode towards them and handed out the blankets.

"Raivis," Toris pressed.

"No, it's fine," Raivis said. "If you guys think getting rid of my alcohol is so _funny_ _—_ _"_

"It's funny because Russia's sunflowers will die," Eduard explained. He didn't understand; this should have been obvious.

"Yeah, well maybe that's not why I did it."

Eduard looked to Toris for help, but the Lithuanian seemed just as confused.

"Raivis, if there's something you want to tell us—"

"It doesn't matter. Eduard has my beer now, so you don't have to worry about me drinking anymore."

"As long as you don't steal vodka from Russia," Eduard warned.

Raivis threw out the sheet so forcefully, the whiplash sent out a puff of wind that ruffled Eduard's bangs. He recognized a tantrum when he saw one.

 _Just what we need,_ Eduard huffed to himself as he stripped the sheets off his own bed. _More secrets._

After they finished making their beds, the Baltics changed into damp pajamas and climbed under the sheets. Eduard glanced over to see his little brother pull his legs up to his chin. It seemed such a small gesture—killing sunflowers would do nothing to bring about independence. But anything they could do to undermine Russia's authority was considered a victory.

_And if we manage to go through with this plan, it will be our biggest movement behind Russia's back since the war._

A thrill coursed through him—just the thought of outwitting his master made all of their efforts worth it.

"Ar labu nakti," Raivis mumbled into his pillow.

"Head ööd," Eduard whispered back.

"Labanakt," Toris said. He locked eyes with Eduard and mouthed, _Be careful._

Eduard held his brother's gaze a moment longer before clicking off the light and plunging them into a chilled darkness.

The mansion moaned in the wake of Winter's visit. Eduard lay face-up in bed, tracing the cracks in the ceiling as he listened to his brothers' slowed breaths. Only a few hours had passed since he bid them goodnight, but the anxiety brewing in his stomach made it seem like an eternity. He tilted his head to glance at the clock on the side-table. It was time.

Eduard took a shuddery breath, then flung the bedsheets aside. He slid his legs off the mattress, the chill of the cement floor bit his toes. He glanced to his brothers—all he could see of Raivis was a head of moppy hair emerging from the blankets. Toris's eyelids twitched in his sleep, fists tightened around the sheets in what Eduard supposed was a nightmare.

Looking at the two of them—so terrified, so helpless—reminded him of why he was doing this. Eduard closed his eyes and tried to rein in the fear gripping his chest.

 _It's just a short trip to the dungeon, that's all. I'll offer the beer, strike a deal with Prussia, and then leave._ His fingers curled around the mattress as he added, _In one piece._

Eduard slipped on his glasses and rose from the bed. After hissing from the cold and hopping on one foot to pull on his boots, he crouched to slide the satchel out from under the bed, careful to avoid clinking the bottles. Eduard put a hand to his pocket and felt the small lump where the key still rested. He glanced back at the two sleeping forms.

"I'll be back," he whispered, unsure if he was saying it for their sake or his. With that, he turned and quietly opened the door, stepping out into the shadowy maze of Russia's mansion.

The blizzard continued to roar outside, drowning out Eduard's footsteps as he tiptoed up the stairs. He rounded the corner into the kitchen, careful that his boots didn't echo on the tile.

Eduard paused in front of the cutlery set where black handles of knives glistened in neat rows.

Toris had warned him not to bring a weapon, but that was easy to say for a nation capable of soothing even Russia's temper. Eduard ghosted a finger over the handles, pulling one out to see its serrated edge. "That would be unpleasant," he muttered, sliding it back in. He checked a few more before finally choosing a smooth-edged utility knife.

Eduard curled his fingers around the handle, tilting it so that it threw a soft light across the cabinets. He gave the knife a swipe, then a jab. He almost laughed, _Who am I kidding, I can't use this!_ For all his military training, Eduard had little interest in hand-to-hand combat; he much preferred strategizing from the sidelines. But even more ridiculous than the notion of Eduard winning a knife fight was the thought of him facing Prussia unarmed.

Eduard gripped the weapon tightly as he left the kitchen and continued down the halls.

As he grew closer to the entrance, Eduard's memory flickered to his previous trips to the dungeon. He felt rough palms clamp around his wrists, a pistol barrel aimed at his head. He could hear the clunk of the door being unlocked, the haunting moan of it swinging open, and then the darkness, where the only thing he knew was pain and the echo of his own screams.

Eduard shuddered, hugging himself in the chilly air. Just a few days spent in that hell pit were enough to give him nightmares for the rest of his life. He couldn't imagine what it must be like to be trapped down there for seven _years_ _…_ and he certainly was not looking forward to finding out.

As Eduard rounded a corner and squinted into the darkness, he could make out the rectangular outline of a door.

Eduard felt as though he stood on the border between safety and sadism, earth and hell, sanity and dementia.

He swallowed thickly, reaching inside his pocket to produce a small flashlight. He clenched the metal between his teeth as he pulled out the key, fingers trembling as he inserted it into the keyhole. A dull _clunk_ resounded from inside of the door.

Eduard took a deep breath before pulling it open.

The smell slammed into him like a brick wall. It was the stench of a decade's worth of mold, rot, and the metallic tang of blood. The darkness beyond the door was so thick, it seemed to pool into the hallway.

Eduard clamped his hand over his mouth, threw his shoulders back, and took a decisive step into the blackness. What little he could see disappeared when he reached behind him and shut the door with an echoing _CLANG._

Eduard tucked the key into his pocket, taking the flashlight out of his mouth to shine it in front of him. The ring of light revealed a series of stone steps that led deeper into the dungeon.

Tightening his hand over his mouth, he began the descent into the gloom. His footsteps echoed with whispery clunks that bounced off the stone walls. The air grew thicker with each step, the stench becoming so unbearable that Eduard gagged halfway down the stairs. He stumbled the rest of the way, just in time to vomit onto the dungeon floor.

Eduard wiped the bile off of his chin with a sleeve. Now not only did it smell horrid, but his throat burned with stomach acid. _Brilliant._

After recovering from that bit of trauma, he stood up and scanned the area with the flashlight. It glinted off rows of weapons—knives, maces, whips—the flashlight casting long shadows onto the stone wall behind them.

All at once the light vanished; a clatter echoed through the dungeon and Eduard cursed. How had he dropped the flashlight, was he shaking that badly!? He crouched to his knees, hands ghosting over the floor. Eduard shuddered when his fingertips brushed crisp flakes.

 _Not blood,_ he told himself, heart hammering in his ears. _That is most definitely NOT blood._

A low chuckle echoed through the blackness and Eduard froze. It was sinister and grainy, bouncing off the walls from every direction:

" _You're not afraid of the dark, are you?"_

Eduard blinked upon hearing German spoken for the first time since the war; nevertheless, he understood the words clearly. _Dammit, I should have practiced!_ Before he had been confident in his language abilities, but now faced with a native speaker, Eduard found himself scrambling to replace his Russian vocabulary with German words.

"Preussen?" he called into the darkness, the pronunciation coming out completely wrong. The name bounced off the walls, as if the dungeon itself were mocking him:

 _Preu_ ss _en, Preu_ ss _en, Preu_ ss _en_ _…_

Eduard's neck prickled with the sensation of being watched. He tried to ignore the dried flakes as his hands desperately groped for the flashlight. At last his fingers brushed over cool metal. He grabbed it and clicked it on, jumping to his feet and shining it around the dungeon.

His breathing was heavy as he searched for any sign of movement. But all he could see were the weapon racks and the outline of dark stains against the back wall. He gulped, voice cracking as he forced out the awkward grammar and phonetics:

"I'm here to help, Prussia. If you can show me where you are, then we can talk."

" _Ah, so you really can speak German. Who is it I wonder_ _—_ _this boy who reeks of tea, armed with my language and a knife?"_

Eduard tensed; how could Prussia know he had a knife? Chains clinked in the darkness, along with the scrape of metal sliding across the cement floor. The circle of light trembled, but for all his efforts Eduard still couldn't find the source of the sound. He struggled to keep the tremor out of his voice,

"I'm not here to hurt you, Prussia. I just want to talk."

Dark chuckles echoed through the dungeon and a rasp breathed in his ear: "I have two newsflashes for you, trespasser. One: Prussia is dead. Two: I want that beer."

Eduard made to spin around, but the cold sting of metal bit into his neck and jerked him backwards. He gasped, mouth opening in a silent scream as the chain tightened into a chokehold. Before he could maneuver the knife, a bony hand grabbed his wrist in mid-air and twisted it behind his back.

An elbow dug into his shoulder blades, forcing him to keel over, his entire body jarring as his knees hit the cement. Cold, skeletal fingers pried the knife from his hands, then a cool metal tip of the blade scraped his throat.

"Make one move and the next dried pool of blood on this floor will be yours."

Eduard squeezed his eyes shut. This was _not_ supposed to happen! Prussia was chained; he shouldn't have been able to move freely! If Eduard was choked to death, then Russia would find his body down here, and the key—!

"Now, I'm going to release this chain and you’re going to open a bottle of beer for me." The tip of the knife pressed into his neck and Eduard felt a warm rivulet run down his shirt. "You think you can do that, Tea Boy?"

Eduard nodded, feeling as though his lungs would burst. Finally the chains were released, and he sucked in a desperate gasp for air. His body shook with rattling coughs as he struggled to breathe.

Bony fingers grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked his head up, the blade pressed to the underside of his chin. Cold breath tickled his ear as a voice hissed, "Now."

Eduard let out a small whimper in the back of his bruised throat. Somehow the flashlight had turned off, and now he was lost in pitch blackness. He reached forward with his hands, fingers trembling as he groped for the satchel.

There was an annoyed sigh behind him. "To your right."

Eduard gulped, his neck digging into the blade. He moved his hand to the right until it brushed over leather. He grabbed the satchel and pulled it closer, fumbling with the buckles. At last, he opened it and pulled out a single bottle of beer, then searched again for the bottle opener.

"Aristocrap," Prussia snorted. "Open it with your teeth."

Eduard brought the bottle to his mouth, lips trembling as he placed the cool glass against his lower teeth. Tears sprung from his eyes as he worked the tin cap against his jaw, but at last it popped open with a slight _hiss._

Above him, Prussia took a deep breath. "That's a Pilsner if I ever smelled one," he sighed, then snatched it from Eduard's grip.

As the dungeon echoed with greedy gulps, it began to dawn on Eduard just what a horrible predicament he was in. The beer was supposed to be his leverage! Now he was pinned to the floor with a knife at his throat and nothing to do but beg Prussia for his life! Even worse, Prussia had been capable of disarming him in the pitch black.

_How did he even know I had beer in the first place?_

At last Prussia finished drinking with a satisfied _"Ahh,"_ dropping the bottle with the grain of glass rolling across cement.

"Now then," he said, scratchy German rumbling through Eduard's bones. "Who are you and what the fuck are you doing in my dungeon? Oh, and if you haven't noticed, I'm not exactly pressed for time here. We can do this _all_ day, so if you want to crawl back to whatever shithole you came from, I suggest you spill it."

Prussia was surprisingly lucid for someone who had been in seven years of solitary confinement. This made him much more dangerous than anticipated.

"You got all that, Tea Boy? Or do I need to explain it in whatever freakish language you speak."

Anger flared up inside of Eduard at the insult, and for a moment he forgot his fear. His German was already coming more naturally; with each of Prussia's sentences his memory was being refreshed.

" _Languages,"_ he corrected through clenched teeth. "I'm Estonia. And I can understand you just fine."

"Mein Gott, don't tell me you're a _nation._ You can't even hold a fucking knife! What do you do when your people go to war, pour everyone a cup of tea?"

Eduard flinched at those words—of course he couldn't carry a knife; he'd won his independence with gunpowder, not kitchenware! He forced himself to calm down and think of a way to get out of this situation. The beer wasn't his only leverage, it was just a means to open up negotiations. _I guess this counts,_ he thought grimly. Eduard swallowed—if he didn't play this right, Russia would be peeling his dead body off the floor.

"I'm here to offer you a way to escape. But I won't tell you what it is unless you release me."

There was a pause, then cool breath tickled the back of his neck. "I've never met you in my life and chances are I've killed a lot of people you care about. What do you owe me?"

Eduard decided not to mention they'd met before—it wasn't uncommon for world powers to forget he existed. "Nothing," he answered, shuddering at the memories from the war. "I need you to do something for me in exchange."

"Ah, so _I'll_ be the one in debt." Eduard could hear the smile in Prussia's voice. "Manipulation and bribery with a knife to your throat? You really are a nation."

The weight shifted off Eduard's back, and the blade retreated from his throat. Chains slid across the floor, along with the rustle of leather and clinks of beer bottles. There was a _hiss_ of another cap being opened, then more gulps.

Eduard shakily rose to his feet. He tried to clear his vision, but no matter how many times he blinked, he was met with complete blackness. Every siren in his brain screamed for him to bolt up those stairs. He was unarmed and blind, trapped in a dungeon with an ex-Nazi who could see with his ears and happened to have a knife.

But regardless of what his instincts told him, Eduard knew the worst thing he could do was to run. One wrong move, and he would become a contributor to the mural of dark stains splotching this dungeon floor.

"Talk," Prussia commanded.

Eduard gulped and wrung his hands. "I live here in the mansion with my brothers, Latvia and Lithuania. We all work for Russia—"

"Ohhh you're one of Snow Bastard's bitches!"

Eduard nearly choked. "Pardon?"

"He complains about you three all the fucking time. Which one are you—the smart-ass, the loud-mouth, or the slut?"

Eduard’s face grew hot as he paired the nicknames with each Baltic. "I'm not answering that question."

"You idiots keep pissing him off, and what does he do? He comes raging down here to vent, that's what. Screaming bloody murder about some stupid puppet states. Do you know how many of my scars have your name on them, Tea Boy?"

Eduard paled. "I-I'm sorry."

"You're not sorry. You're glad as hell that your skin is still hanging on your skeleton in one piece." Prussia took a swig of beer. "Go on."

Eduard felt uneasy; negotiating with Prussia would be difficult if he blamed his injuries on the Baltics. He didn't seem angry about it, but Eduard needed to be careful so as not to rub the Prussian the wrong way.

"Two nights ago, Russia took Latvia—the youngest of us—into the kitchen. We assumed it was an interrogation, but as the night went on, we didn't hear any screams. The next morning when we found him, he didn't have a single bruise or scratch anywhere on his body—the only sign of abuse was a hangover."

A loud _BANG_ echoed off the walls and Eduard jumped. It took him a moment to realize that Prussia had slammed the beer bottle onto the floor.

"Russia gives you _alcohol!?_ That two-faced bastard!"

"He could have interrogated my brother in any number of ways while he was drunk, and I can't let him do that again. I need to find out what he did so I can stop it."

Prussia's chuckle echoed into the glass bottle. "You stop Snow Bastard? Now _that_ I wanna see."

"It's only a matter of time before Russia takes my brother again. Last time he locked Lithuania and me in the bedroom; the only way I can spy on him is for me to be in a different room when he comes to get Latvia."

Eduard paused to take a breath, hoping he had succeeded in making his case. "We need you to be my decoy."

There was a short pause, then the dungeon exploded with mad, cackling laughter. Eduard jumped, eyes reflexively searching for the source even though he couldn't see anything.

"HAHAHAHA—You—you actually think—KESESESESE!"

Eduard was helpless to do anything as he stood alone in the darkness and waited for the laughter to stop. It was minutes before Prussia finally managed to control himself.

"I don't know what's more hilarious," he wheezed. "The fact that you think your idiotic plan will _work,_ or that you think I actually want out of here! Kesesese!"

"You… don't want out?" Eduard asked in disbelief.

"Of course I don't want out!"

A small object hit him in the temple and rattled as it bounced off the ground. Eduard realized Prussia had thrown a bottle cap at him—the accuracy in the pitch black made him even more nervous than before.

"This dungeon is the only place I still exist. One step into the outside world and I become what time has turned me into." Prussia's voice lowered to a hiss, " _Nobody."_

"But…don't you represent GDR?"

"What the hell is that?"

Eduard was taken aback by Prussia's response. Did he have no knowledge of what was going on in the outside world? Usually Russia locked nations in the dungeon to break them into being his slaves—to drill into their minds a new identity under Communism. But not only did Prussia seem to retain his fiery will—he hadn't even heard of the German Democratic Republic! How had Russia failed to mention Prussia's very _identity_ —the one he himself had created—for seven years?

All at once, Eduard began to realize he had seriously misjudged Prussia's state of mind. He had never seen Russia take this approach with any other nation, and he didn't know what to expect. First thing was first: Prussia needed an update.

"After the war ended," he began, speaking slowly so Prussia could process his words, "It was decided that Germany would be split into two main occupation zones. The Western occupation zone would be controlled by the European Allies and the United States, and the Eastern occupation zone by the Soviet Union. East Prussia was dissolved, and so we were left with you and Germany as representations."

"My brother," Prussia said in a low voice.

"Yes. Russia wanted him to represent the Soviet occupation zone, but you objected and demanded to take his place. So we held a vote. Don't you remember?"

He had expected Prussia to interrupt him, but the silence was a worrying sign that he had no memory of the Potsdam Conference.

Eduard continued, "The vote was overwhelmingly in favor of you representing the Soviet zone, and so Russia gained custody of you that day. Soon afterwards all of the nations 'liberated' by the Red Army met in Moscow for a… party." He shuddered at the cruel irony of that so-called celebration.

"The next day, everyone was sent home except for Russia's sisters, my brothers and I, and you. Russia locked you in the dungeon and we never saw you again. What was meant to be a temporary occupation turned into a fully-fledged Communist state, and two years later the Soviet occupation zone of Eastern Germany officially became the German Democratic Republic, or GDR."

Again, Prussia was completely silent.

"That's who you are," Eduard said slowly. "That's what you represent."

After a long time, Prussia answered in a low voice, "If I represented this so-called GDR, then I would feel for the living. I only feel for the dead."

"Maybe it's because you've been separated from your people for so long. Maybe if you would come out—"

Chains rattled, and a hand shot out from the darkness to ball around the collar of his shirt. Eduard let out a strangled cry as Prussia threw him down, body jarring as his back hit the cement floor.

"Didn't you HEAR ME!?" Prussia shrieked. "I'm DEAD! My kingdom is dead, my leaders are dead, and my people are _dead!_ The only thing left of me is this rotting carcass, which Russia has been stripping away from me for years!"

His voice lowered to a deadly hiss, "Do you know why my body hasn't died yet, Tea Boy? It's because Gott _himself_ has chosen to punish me with the memories of what I've done. This dungeon is my private Hell, designed especially for me so that I can rot for eternity with the screams of my people echoing in my ears. _That_ is who I represent, and _this_ is where will I will stay." Prussia's voice fell to a low growl as he spat, "No half-assed plan of yours can change that."

Eduard didn't know what was worse—being brainwashed into an obedient satellite state, or being denied representation. Prussia wasn't alive because of some divine punishment—he was alive because he was still a nation!

Suddenly, Eduard didn't fear the knife at his throat. If he couldn't convince Prussia of his representation, all of this would have been for nothing.

"There are millions of people who depend on you. If you abandon them—"

"You know NOTHING about abandoning your people!" Prussia shrieked, wrenching Eduard's collar. "You can't even _comprehend_ the regret, the self-hate that consumes you every waking and sleeping hour of your existence! You don't know what it's like to see their desperate faces, to hear their screams for help even as you risk everything to save them!"

The blade shook against Eduard's skin. "You know _nothing_ about me, or who I represent," Prussia snarled. "And I want your ass out of this dungeon before I add your name to the list of stolen lives on my conscience."

Eduard couldn't believe it. After all of this—after everything they went through—and Prussia was refusing the deal!

"What, are you deaf, too!? I said, get your socialist ass out of my dungeon RIGHT FUCKING NOW!"

"I-I can't you have a—a knife, I can't move—"

Prussia growled in frustration, then stepped off of Eduard with the rattling of chains. Eduard groped for the flashlight, then jumped as the small object was shoved into his hand.

"If Russia finds out I was here—"

"Psh, you think I'm going to keep the beer in plain sight? Gott forbid _I_ swallow a drop of his precious alcohol…"

"And you won't tell him?"

"I won't tell him as long as you are out of here in ten, nine, eight…"

"Can I have the knife back? Russia will notice it's missing—"

"…six, five…"

Without another word, Eduard clicked on the flashlight and bolted towards the staircase. His breath was ragged, footsteps echoing against the floor as he leapt up the stairs three at a time. That grainy voice never faded, bouncing the walls as if the dungeon itself were counting down to his death:

"…three… two…"

Eduard yanked open the door and jumped outside just as the last number echoed up the staircase:

"…one."

He slammed the door shut, fingers shaking as he fumbled for the key. He was so out of breath, he could barely insert it into the keyhole, but at last there was a dull _thunk_ of the lock.

Eduard jogged down the hall, putting as much distance between him and that voice, that stench, the pure _insanity_ that lurked behind that door.

When he rounded the corner, he stopped to press a hand up against the wall. Eduard stood slumped, beads of sweat dripping from his temple as he gasped for air.

"No," he panted, unable to believe what had happened. He curled a hand into a fist and pounded the wall, _"Dammit!"_

Eduard squeezed his eyes shut as he raked a trembling hand through his hair. He just couldn't believe it. After everything…

_What am I going to tell Toris?_

* * *

HISTORY NOTES

**Gulag Labor Camps**

The Gulag labor camp system was the most notorious element of Stalin's regime. At its height, there were over 30,000 camps across the USSR. Most of these were located in the Western USSR, but those located in Siberia were particularly harsh. Average winter temperatures ranged from −19 °C to −38 °C, and prisoners worked long days with little food. Totaling casualties is difficult due to lack of records, but estimates have put the death-toll of arctic Gulag camps between 250,000 and over a million from 1930-1950.

**Division of Germany**

Decisions were made by the Allies at the Yalta and Potsdam Conferences to divide Germany into zones of occupation, but this was meant to be a transitional step on the road to a united, democratic Germany. However, over time it became clear that the Western occupation zones and the Soviet occupation zone had different intentions. This came to a head with the Berlin Blockade of '48-'49, during which the Soviets sealed off all entrances to Berlin in an attempt to force the Allies out. Shortly afterwards, the British, American, and French sectors of Western Germany united to create the Federal Republic of Germany (May 23, 1949) and the Communist party consolidated power in the East to create the German Democratic Republic (October 7, 1949)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I mentioned earlier, DITR is part of a series that covers WWII and the Soviet Era. Reading the other stories in this series is completely optional, but the one I would definitely recommend reading is [Auf Wiedersehen.](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/10087722/1/Auf-Wiedersehen) It's a oneshot that covers the Potsdam Conference and how Gilbert came to be under Russia's custody.
> 
> Also these pieces of art weren't commissioned or made for DITR, but I thought they were great images for Prussia in this chapter: [HERE](https://chessna2.tumblr.com/post/182576737592/jackce-have-an-evil-pru-3) and [HERE](https://chessna2.tumblr.com/post/184646793367)
> 
> Thanks for reading, and comments are -cue Gilbert- AWESOME!


	6. Peilis — Knife

_"Kesesese_ _…_ _I've been waiting for you, Estonia."_

_"NO!" Toris screamed, banging on the dungeon door. "EDUARD!"_

_"Nice try, Uselessuania! He's mine now! You'll never see him again!"_

" _No, no_ _…_ _Eduard! Please, can you hear me? Eduard! EDUARD!"_

Toris awoke with a gasp, sitting bolt upright in bed. His nightshirt stuck to his back, arms glistening with cold sweat. He glanced to his brother's bed, then sighed with relief to see that Eduard was still there.

Toris slid out of the covers, careful not to make too much noise. The clock on the nightstand read eight in the morning, blue light filtering through the crack in the door. As he approached Eduard, a horrid smell filled his lungs—one of rot, mold, and death. Toris nearly gagged, clamping a hand over his mouth. He noticed a dark ring of bruises circling Eduard's neck, and a thin cut with a single line of dried blood that streaked into his collar.

 _No, what happened? Was I wrong about the chains?_ With horror, Toris realized he had made a fatal mistake in asking Eduard to negotiate with Prussia. Judging by those wounds, his brother was lucky to be alive. _I_ _—_ _I would have never asked him to_ _—_ _if I had known_ _…_

Toris's hand trembled as he shook Eduard's shoulder. "Eduard," he whispered. There was no response aside from flickering eyelids, and he shook him harder. "Eduard, wake up."

Eduard bolted upright with a gasp; Toris barely managed to pull back in time to avoid a collision. The Estonian stared at Toris with wide eyes, then relaxed as he gained control of his breathing.

"Sorry," he muttered. "Bad dream."

"Or a flashback," Toris corrected, keeping his voice low. He threw a glance over his shoulder to confirm that Raivis was still asleep, then leaned over and hissed, "What happened down there?"

Eduard stared at the bed covers.

"Eduard—whatever went wrong isn't your fault. You can tell me."

When Eduard spoke his voice was grainy. "You were right. We should never have asked for Prussia's help. It was a stupid, _stupid_ idea…"

"That's not important right now, what matters is that you're safe. Did he hurt you?"

"Just… my neck."

"May I?"

Eduard tilted his head to expose the bruises. Toris leaned in, fingers lightly pressing the dark splotches, then ghosting to the cut. His instincts demanded to know exactly what had happened, but Eduard had a right to privacy.

It was an unspoken rule among the Baltics that nobody was obliged to repeat traumatizing experiences. Toris himself had seen the questions burning in his brothers' eyes as they tended to his wounds, but rarely did he tell them what Russia had done—more often than not, injuries spoke better than words. Now that he was up close, Toris could see Eduard had been choked with a chain, but the cut…

"How did he get a knife?"

"I brought one with me from the kitchen," Eduard answered flatly. "He still has it."

Toris mentally cursed—he _told_ Eduard not to bring a weapon! But after everything his brother had gone through, he didn't want to scold him.

"I can replace it with another one, Ivan won't notice it's gone." He pulled his hands back and studied Eduard. The way teal eyes refused to meet his, the deadness in his voice, how his fists tightened around the covers… Toris knew Eduard's injuries were not the only thing that had gone wrong.

"Eduard," he said softly. "You can tell me."

The Estonian closed his eyes. "We did everything right. We made the right sacrifices, we took the right risks. But there was no possible way for me to predict this. _Never,_ had I imagined that—" Eduard cut himself off, then glared at the sheets as he hissed, "Russia ruined _everything."_

The hatred burning in his brother's eyes worried Toris. Eduard was a master at controlling his emotions; a display like this was rare. Toris kept his voice low so as not to wake Raivis,

"How?"

"In seven years of torture, Russia failed to mention the existence of the German Democratic Republic to Prussia even _once._ Not only did he have no idea what it was, but I had to explain to him how and why it was created."

Toris took a moment to process this. "He… could have forgotten, severe head trauma can sometimes cause memory loss."

"It's more than that. He can't feel the East Germans. He says the only people he can connect with are his own dead, and that the dungeon is his private hell to pay for what he's done." Eduard's jaw tightened. "He doesn't want to leave the dungeon."

Was it possible that after seven years in the dungeon, Prussia could be driven mad enough to believe he deserved to stay there? Toris’s heart sank as he realized Eduard was right—they had made all the right moves; the plan should have worked. Eduard was a born strategist. He always calculated each possible glitch in his plans; he accounted for each mistake. But to be blindsided by something so unpredictable… Toris knew it must be tearing him apart.

"Eduard… I'm so sorry."

"Don't be. I was an idiot to think this could work."

A thick silence settled over the room, the only sound coming from Raivis's soft breathing. Toris wanted to comfort his brother, but the far-off look in Eduard's eyes told him any words would fall on deaf ears.

"Why would Russia _do_ that? Not a single republic or satellite state hasn't been used for the good of the Soviet Union. Russia sees value in us and takes advantage; it's what he's always done." Eduard's brows knitted in confusion. "What purpose does it serve, to have a rotting carcass in your dungeon? How does that help the Soviet Union in any way?"

Toris could tell Eduard expected an answer. It was true he was much closer to Ivan than most nations, but this was often a burden rather than an advantage. He didn't always have the answers, and sometimes he was wrong.

"Ivan locked up Prussia in '45; we were hardly on speaking terms back then. But… it was my understanding that he wanted to kill him."

"As I'm sure he tried. But it _didn't work._ And it didn't work because Prussia is still a nation; surely Russia would have understood that."

"Maybe he didn't want to admit that he was wrong. Maybe it was easier to pretend that Prussia was dead."

"But he's _alive!_ ” Eduard insisted. "There are millions of people in the GDR right now whose blood runs through his veins, who need him to represent them. They need him to stay strong, to stand up for them—to fight for them when the time comes!"

"Eduard," Toris said quietly.

"And as long as we play along with this ridiculous charade, as long as we keep pretending that a satellite state is dead, we're failing them just as much as we've already failed our own people!"

It surprised Toris to hear his brother so passionately defend the East Germans. But Eduard had always believed justice should be upheld, regardless of a nation's history.

"Eduard."

Toris placed a hand on his brother's shoulder. Bloodshot eyes darted to lock with his, Eduard's chest heaving with angered breaths.

"We haven't failed our people—we fight for them in our small ways every day. But Prussia's people are not our responsibility." Toris could see the protest in his brother's eyes, but he continued, "The world thinks Prussia is dead. And if you ask me, it's a better place because of it."

Eduard looked up at Toris with an exhausted expression that for once didn't hold an answer. His voice cracked as he asked, "What do we do now?"

Toris wished he knew. But he wasn't Eduard; he couldn't think of these elaborate plans on a whim. His eyes softened with apology, "I don't know."

Eduard groaned in the back of his throat, then buried his head in his hands.

Toris couldn't bear to watch his brother in so much pain. He stood and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him as he strode to the bathroom.

Running tap echoed as Toris splashed water on his face, then brushed his teeth. A heavy weight settled over him as he realized the implications of the plan's failure. It was bad enough that Ivan had refused a meeting, but Toris had been willing to write a Communist official or get Ivan drunk to change his mind. But now that Prussia had refused to help them, all of his efforts had been for nothing.

Toris spat toothpaste into the sink, frowning at his bedhead reflection. _Is there anything else we could do without Prussia's help? But not even Eduard could think of another plan_ _…_

After dragging a brush through his hair, Toris made his way upstairs to get a cup of tea. He needed time to think.

The moment he stepped into the kitchen, the strong scent of vodka filled his lungs. Toris looked up and bit back a gasp.

Ivan sat at the breakfast table with several bottles and a shot glass. It wasn't uncommon for his master to drink heavily after General Winter's visits, but usually he did so alone in his room. Toris recognized a dangerous situation when he saw one—he slowly turned around to leave.

"Where are you going?"

Toris froze in his tracks. "Ah… back to our bedroom sir, I didn't want to disturb you."

"You are not disturbing me. Come, sit." Ivan's voice was cheerful, a sign the alcohol had lifted his spirits.

Toris's stomach twisted with dread at the thought of having to sit across from a drinking Ivan this early in the morning. He hadn't even gotten dressed for the day—he was still wearing mint green flannel pajamas.

Toris turned around, avoiding Ivan's gaze as he came to sit in the chair opposite of him. His eyes followed the Russian's huge hands as he poured vodka into another shot glass and slid it across the table. Toris didn't move, hands firmly in his lap as he refused to look up at his master. There had been a time when he and Ivan could bond over vodka shots, but those days were long gone. Ever since the Revolution, Toris had refused to drink—he hadn't had a drop in almost fifty years.

Ivan slammed his fist on the table so hard, the glass clattered.

Toris jumped, fists clenching in his lap.

"You are an embarrassment," Ivan growled.

"I'm sorry, sir."

Toris felt Ivan glaring at him. After a stretch of silence he rumbled, "There is hot water on the stove; get some tea."

Toris found it strange that Ivan was ordering him to make tea, but he didn't argue. He stood from the table and walked to the cabinets where he took down a teacup, saucer, and tea bag, then strode to the stove to pour the hot water. He waited for Ivan to say more, but the only noise in the kitchen was the hiss of steaming water and the _thunk_ of Ivan setting down his shot glass.

Toris returned to the table and sank into his chair. He snuck a glance at Ivan to see the Russian staring grimly into space as he downed another shot. Toris wanted to believe Ivan had ulterior motives for making him sit here, but if he didn't know better, it seemed as though they were simply sharing a morning drink together. He could tell by the dark circles beneath Ivan's eyes that he hadn't slept much the night before—another side-effect of Winter's visit.

The season was harsh to his master; the few times Toris had been able to overhear their conversations, it often sounded as though Winter were scolding a misbehaving child. He heard words like _pathetic, weak, I raised you better than this._ He hadn't been able to decipher any of their exchange the night before, but Ivan's strangled cry of pain was proof the season had been even harsher than usual.

Toris shifted his gaze out the window to the snow-laden landscape and distant spires of Moscow. The December sun was still rising this late in the morning, the sky a wash of pastel pinks and yellows. He took a sip of his tea, the hot liquid warming his insides and the sharp taste stirring his muddled brain awake. A pair of sparrows darted across the window and landed on the frozen bird bath as they chirped and pecked at the fallen seeds on the ice.

He glanced over to see Ivan's eyes following the birds' movements. His face was tired, but relaxed. He seemed to have forgotten Toris was there.

They sat in a comfortable silence for some time. Toris’s thoughts wandered to the plan, and how he would face the rest of his day knowing Eduard was so destroyed. He wondered if his brother would try to think of something else.

He closed his eyes as he let the warm water slide down his throat.

"Winter came to warn me of NATO's strength. We will hold a meeting to discuss how to deal with this."

Toris choked on his tea, the hot liquid sloshing in his cup as he coughed. He wiped a hand across his mouth and stared at Ivan in shock, sure he had misheard.

"Pardon?"

"This will not be a meeting between just me and our allies. It will be a full meeting, to include all of the republics."

"You mean—"

"Da, I will not be representing the Soviet Union alone. I want everyone to attend—you three, my sisters, and the others. Comrade Stalin agrees with me, I called him this morning. We will not know an exact date until I contact the satellite states, but my guess is the meeting will be in a few weeks."

Toris's mind spun. _Ivan asked for a meeting?_

He stared at his master, thinking it must be some kind of cruel joke. But Ivan remained serious, spinning the glass on the table as he stared intently through the window.

But how— _why?_ Ivan had never allowed the republics to attend an international meeting, he had always served as the sole representative of the USSR. Toris studied his master closely, trying to determine if this was a blessing or a curse. But it was impossible to tell, as Ivan's face remained blank and he refused to look Toris in the eye. He gave up trying to read his master's mind—regardless of the motive, Ivan had agreed to hold a meeting!

 _I never thought I'd say this_ _…_ _but thank you, General Winter!_

"That's wonderful, sir," Toris stammered, hoping he didn't sound as victorious as he felt.

Ivan's eyes narrowed, then he stood abruptly from his chair. Toris shrank back as his master crossed the table in one step. Ivan's hand shot out to grip his shoulder, and Toris craned his neck to see a glint in those violet eyes.

All traces of joy drained out of him—he knew that look far too well.

"Come with me, Litva, I want to show you something."

Toris couldn't force his legs to move, but he didn't have to. Ivan's grip tightened around his arm and pulled him out of the chair. His heart pounded as his master led him to the countertop. Ivan stopped in front of the stove, then turned around to flash Toris an eerie smile.

"Do you see what I see?"

Toris had no idea what the Russian was talking about.

"No sir."

In a quick movement, Ivan snatched Toris's wrist. "One of my knives is missing."

Toris's eyes widened, then he glanced to the cutlery set where he saw the empty slot. _Dieve._

"And I would like to know where it is." Ivan brought up Toris's hand between them as he said sweetly, "Do you think you could tell me that, Litva?"

Toris's mind raced—he could lie, but if Ivan decided to search him and his brothers, he would discover Eduard's wounds. The Russian had been a warrior all his life; he would recognize the knife cut and the bruises, not to mention the stench from the dungeon! But telling the truth wasn't an option, either.

Toris braced himself, trying to ignore the fear that was making it difficult to breathe. "No, sir, I have no idea, I-I didn't even know it was missing."

"Really?”

Ivan slid the teapot off the burner and yanked Toris's hand so that he tripped forward, his palm hovering over the flames. Toris gasped as the heat licked at his palm. He tried to pull away, digging his heels into the ground and twisting his arm, but Ivan's strength made it impossible to move.

His master's voice remained cheerful as he said, "Because you are the only one who spends time in this kitchen. And your brothers wouldn't know how to use a knife as a weapon if their lives depended on it."

Toris had known something like this was bound to go wrong, that he would make a mistake somewhere and have to pick up the pieces. But what he _hadn't_ expected was to clean up after Eduard's carelessness.

_I told him not to take a weapon into the dungeon, dammit!_

Toris forced his nerves under control; a missing kitchen knife was the first sign of resistance Ivan had spotted in seven years. If he was lucky, his master would overlook it as a simple mistake.

"I-I'm sorry, sir, I don't know where it is, and even if I did, sir, I would have no reason to use it as a weapon."

For a split second, Ivan's face softened into a look of pity—almost as if apologizing for what he was about to do. He stepped forward, and Toris's eyes widened as a huge hand came to clamp over his mouth, Ivan's body trapping him against the countertop. Thick fingers pressed deep into his cheeks, mashing his lips closed. Ivan forced Toris's hand lower so that the heat began to sear his skin. Toris tried to protest, but his cries were muffled behind his master's palm. He twisted and pulled away, but still Ivan brought his hand closer—

Pain seared through his palm as smoke curled up from the burner, his nostrils filled with the sickening stench of burning flesh. Toris screamed behind Ivan's hand, twisting and writhing against the counter.

It could have been seconds, but it felt like minutes before Ivan jerked Toris's hand off the stove.

He breathed hard through his nose, snot running down his face as his body trembled from the pain. Ivan’s hand fell from his mouth and Toris sucked in a moaning gasp.

"I'm going to ask you again, Litva. Where is my knife?"

Toris couldn't stop the tears—he didn't think he could bear that pain again. "I'm sorry, I don't know, please sir, I didn't take it!"

Ivan's grip tightened around his wrist.

"No, please—!"

Ivan's hand clamped around his mouth again and mashed his burnt palm against the flames. The pain was excruciating. Toris's chest heaved and he tried to buck Ivan off of him, tears streaming from his eyes as he screamed.

Finally, Ivan lifted his hand from the burner, but this time he didn't let go of Toris's jaw. Toris breathed hard through his nose, salty tears wetting his lips. He let out a whimper as he was forced to look straight into those gleaming eyes. Only then did the gravity of the situation truly sink in—he hadn't seen Ivan this angry in years.

 _What_ _—_ _what's going on? Why all of a sudden_ _—_ _?_

Ivan's eyes narrowed, voice a low rumble as he hissed, "Why did you ask for a meeting?"

Toris’s chest seized, and for a moment he forgot the pain. _No_ _…_ _why is he asking this; he wasn't suspicious yesterday!_

"You have been in contact with Poland, have you not? He needs an excuse to be in Moscow, so you agreed to help. Perhaps he is planning to assassinate one of my officials, to stir up trouble at the Kremlin, da? I would even say that the two of you are planning an escape, but I trust that you are not so _stupid_ as to attempt such a foolish crusade."

Violets narrowed and giant fingers squeezed with such force, Toris feared his jaw would break. "You are mistaken to think I would let you out of my sight with that _brat_ in town. I will be watching your every move, Litva—if you so much as glance in Poland's direction during that meeting, I will see it as proof the two of you are plotting against me."

Toris's eyes widened. He had been so relieved about the plan, he had completely forgotten this meeting would be his first chance to see Feliks since the war ended. He wasn't sure whether to be overjoyed or horrified—what was the point of being in the same room as Feliks if he wasn't even allowed to look at him?

Ivan's grip loosened from Toris's mouth. "I trust you, Litva—but you would do well to remember that other authorities are not so easily convinced of your allegiance. It should be easy for you to prove them wrong, da? I want this knife back in its slot by tonight."

At last Ivan released him, stepping back and allowing Toris to properly catch his breath. He slumped forward with a gasp, barely managing to support himself on the counter with his good hand.

Ivan seemed uninterested in Toris's recovery, striding to the dining table with a spring in his step. He swept up a vodka bottle and took a long swig. Toris watched in silence, body frozen with the shock that followed torture—too terrified to move or speak without permission.

"Oh, I almost forgot. Make sure to prepare the guest room down the hallway from yours. I want a chain with shackles attached to the headboard."

Toris's eyes widened when he realized who the guest room must be for. "Yes, sir," he managed to say, voice raspy from screaming.

Toris thought he saw Ivan wince. "Enough of this, I have work to do. Tell your brothers they are late in getting started on today's chores."

"Yes, sir."

Toris remained frozen by the counter, gaze following Ivan as he left the kitchen. He listened until he was sure his master was a safe distance away.

"Ah-ah— _uhhhh_ _…_ _"_

Toris trembled as he brought up his hand to look. The skin was a glistening red, warped and popped with white blisters. It could be days before it healed.

Toris smeared away his tears with a sleeve, forcing himself to ignore the pain and let everything sink in.

Ivan saw the signs that something was unusual, but for now he only suspected Toris and Feliks as the perpetrators. Toris hated to drag his friend into this, but at least Eduard was still safe. Even better, he had gotten off with a warning… although it still came with demands. How on earth was he supposed to retrieve the knife from the dungeon?

 _I'll think of that later_ _…_ _thank god he didn't search us._

And then of course was the news that Ivan was going to release Prussia. Toris was positive the new guest room was intended for him—which meant the plan could still work!

_We just need leverage over him so that he'll help us._

But as Toris rolled around the possibilities in his head, he came up with nothing. He realized that although he and the Prussian were lifelong rivals, he had no idea what would incentivize him.

"There has to be something. We'll just need some time to figure out what— _uhhhn_ _…_ "

Toris let out another groan as his hand throbbed. As much as he wanted to tell Eduard about these new developments, he needed to bandage his hand first.

He pushed himself off the counter, legs still weak with adrenaline as he approached the staircase. He stopped when he saw a small figure standing by the handrail.

Toris blinked. "Raivis?"

His eyes adjusted to make out the boy's expression in shadow. Hands gripped the handrail so tight, his knuckles had turned white. Lips parted in silent horror, tracks of tears shimmering on red cheeks.

 _Oh, no_.

Toris knew that look, and it was never good. He hid his burned hand and sent Raivis a warm smile.

"Labrī," he greeted in Latvian, trying to lighten the mood.

Raivis exhaled a shaky breath.

"Is… there something wrong?"

"Your hand. It's burned."

Toris smiled again. "It's not that bad—"

"I can bandage it up for you."

"Ivan said you were late for your chores, perhaps you should—"

"I'm _helping_ you, Toris."

Although the words themselves were kind, their sharp tone sliced the air like a knife.

Toris's smile faded. "Of course."

Raivis said nothing, and the two of them walked to the bathroom in an uncomfortable silence. The door opened with a soft creak, and Toris lowered himself onto the closed toilet seat.

Raivis opened a cabinet door and pulled out burn cream and bandages. The bathroom was silent save for the slight hisses Toris made as his brother applied the gel onto his palm. Raivis's small hands worked quickly, and he didn't even flinch upon seeing Toris's contorted flesh—proof of his experience with serious injuries.

"What happened to Eduard?" Raivis's question held a sharp tone, as if he already knew.

Toris looked up in surprise. "How did you—?"

"I recognized the smell." Raivis's lips pressed into a firm line. "Last night, while I was asleep… Russia beat him in the dungeon, didn't he?"

Toris didn't know what to say. He couldn't tell Raivis about the plan, but the poor boy couldn't go the rest of the day thinking Eduard had been beaten.

"Ivan didn't beat him."

"Then _what_ happened?" Raivis demanded.

Toris was confused, where had this sudden anger come from? "Raivis, I'm sorry, but I can't tell you—"

Raivis threw the bandage on the ground, "Russia's right, isn't he? You're planning to escape with Poland! Russia got me drunk to interrogate me about it, and when I couldn't give him what he wanted, he interrogated Eduard!"

"What?" Toris scoffed. "Why would you think that, I would never put you in danger—"

 _"Don't lie to me!"_ Raivis's voice cracked with the strain of his shout. "Ever since the war you've been acting weird! You used to tell us everything, but now all you talk to us about are stupid things like chores and beer! Meanwhile you're writing secret letters to Poland and running off with Russia—"

Toris's eyes widened. "Raivis—"

"—as if Eduard and I haven't been here the whole time, trying to help! What _are_ we to you, Toris? Just placeholder 'family' until you finally get along with Russia and Poland again? You think you can outgrow us, is that how this works!?"

"No, I—"

The boy sucked in a rattling sob as tears spilled from his eyes, his voice a high-pitched whine, "That's not what it means to be brothers…"

"Raivis, _listen_ to me!" Toris grabbed his brother by the sleeve and pulled him close.

Raivis staggered forward, his body limp as he looked at Toris with an expression so utterly shattered, it made Toris's chest ache. Raivis may have a tendency to get emotional, but this was a complete breakdown—something Toris hadn't seen since the boy's arrival in Berlin.

_Oh god, what have I done?_

He gripped his little brother by the shoulders. "I'm not planning to escape, I swear it. Eduard and I are working together to find out what Russia did to you, but we can't tell you what our plan is, do you understand? Eduard went to the dungeon last night of his own accord, Ivan had nothing to do with it."

"Then—what about the knife, or… a meeting, or—"

"All part of our plan. If you asked Eduard, he would tell you much less than I’m telling you now. You have to trust me, Raivis. I would never do _anything_ to put you or Eduard in harm's way, do you understand? You are not 'placeholders,' you are the only family I have."

"But Poland—"

"Do you see Feliks here?"

"No…"

"Then he is not my first priority. _You_ are, Raivis Galante. And I will do everything in my power to protect you."

Raivis's eyes darted across Toris's face as if making sure he was telling the truth. Then something broke, and his fingers curled around Toris's nightshirt. "I—I-I'm sorry…"

Toris brought his brother close so that his head fell in the crook of his neck. "It's alright," he whispered. "You just got scared."

"I—I just thought—I was so… I'm sorry…"

Toris held his little brother with his good arm as he cried. Raivis may have only been scared by what he overheard in the kitchen, but his accusation left Toris shaken.

_Does he really think I would escape?_

The fact that Raivis could so easily accuse him of abandoning them was a worrying sign he had lost their trust. _Just like Eduard accused me of loving Ivan_ _…_ Eduard and Raivis were the only good thing left in Toris's life; his allegiance was completely to them. Didn't they understand that?

At last Raivis pulled away, sniffing as he smeared away his tears with a flannel sleeve. "Is Eduard going to be okay?"

"Yes, he just has a few bruises. Nothing serious."

"Okay. That's good." Raivis's gaze fell to Toris's lap, and he sucked in a gasp. "Ak dievs, your hand! Geez, I'm such an idiot…"

Toris laughed, "It's fine, Raivis."

"Here, let me help."

Toris's gaze followed the swift movement of small hands wrapping the bandage. Perhaps Raivis was so on edge because Ivan had taken him to the kitchen. If Eduard was right and the boy really couldn't remember anything, he must be imagining all kinds of unpleasant scenarios.

"Raivis… I know you must be terrified of what Ivan did to you, but… I really don't think he hurt you."

Raivis jolted, and a sharp pain throbbed up Toris's hand as the bandage pulled too tight.

"This is what I'm talking about."

"What do you mean?"

"Just minutes ago, I heard Russia press your hand to a _burner_ —you were crying, you were hurting, I could hear you trying to get away…" Raivis swallowed, convincing himself to continue. "But minutes after that, you're rushing to his defense. You _hated_ Russia for taking us back. But now… now it's like you're siding with him, and you never talk to us about it. I want to trust you, but you're making that really hard."

Toris smiled weakly. "I know. And I'm sorry. I… guess I forget how much I keep to myself."

Raivis's face grew serious as he said, "You don't have to. That's what brothers are for."

Toris's chest ached. He wanted to tell Raivis everything—about the deal, how he hated it, how _alone_ he felt—but he couldn't. Toris knew the second his brothers learned of the deal, they would demand he call it off.

But Raivis's breakdown was a bitter reminder that he and Eduard had yet to heal from the trauma Toris brought on them a century ago. If those years in Petersburg still haunted them, how could they ever carry that burden now? How could Toris possibly ask them to, after what he did to them?

Raivis's shoulders sagged with a sigh, eyes dropping to the floor. "You don't have to tell me now. Just… whenever you're ready, I'll be here. Eduard, too, even if he does act like a grouchy old lady sometimes."

Toris couldn't fight down a smile. "Thank you, Raivis."

Raivis's eyes darted up with curiosity. "Are you _sure_ you can't tell me the plan?"

"Eduard insisted we keep it a secret, sorry."

"What Eduard doesn't know won't hurt him," Raivis muttered, and the sheepish expression on his face made Toris laugh. "What, do you have any idea what it's like to not know what's going on, I'm totally freaking out here!"

"You'll just have to trust us," Toris smiled. "But seeing how quickly you were able to put the pieces together, perhaps you won't need answers, taip?"

Raivis stuck out his lip in a pout. "Yeah, I guess. But it'd be a lot easier if you guys would just tell me."

"I'll be sure to put in a word with Eduard."

The boy rolled his eyes. "Like _that_ would help. Changing Eduard's mind is like peeling Austria's aristocratic butt off the piano bench."

The two brothers locked eyes for a moment, then both burst into laughter.

During their time at the Nazi Estate, Austria had earned a reputation for his unwillingness to participate in the war. What had started as a cruel joke became a dare game among the Third Reich territories: One nation would ask, "How many (blank) would it take for Austria to fight on the front?" The filler could be anything from cake rations, to orchestra members, to blowjobs from Hungary.

Once the question was asked, the nations would count to three, and everyone said a number between one and twenty. If anyone said the same number, they would have to announce the verdict over dinner. The punishment for this was a sound lashing, but it was always worth it to see Austria's face turn bright red.

It was a few minutes before Toris caught his breath again. He and Raivis used to laugh all the time; they shared a dark sense of humor. Only now did Toris realize how long it had been since they'd had an honest conversation.

_I miss this._

"Tu esi skaists, kad tu smiesi."

"What does that mean?"

"It means, laughter looks good on you. I can't even _remember_ the last time I heard you laugh, Toris."

"Ačiū kad mane prajuokini."

"What does that mean?"

"Thank you for making me laugh."

Raivis smiled, but the corners of his mouth were strained.

 _He wants more than a laugh. He wants me to tell him what's wrong. But_ _…_ _I can't_ _…_

"Well," Toris sighed, deciding it was time to change the subject. "I think it's about time we got dressed, taip?"

Raivis nodded, and the pair headed to the bedroom.

A sudden warmth spread in Toris’s chest, one he hadn't felt in a long time. Even if he couldn't tell Raivis about the deal, it was a huge relief to know his little brother still supported him.

_I guess Eduard does, too. He just shows it in different ways._

Excitement fluttered in Toris's stomach—he couldn't wait to tell Eduard that not only was Russia holding a meeting, but Prussia was going to be released after all! But as they neared the door, something nagged in the back of Toris's mind.

 _Something's missing_ _…_ _what is it, what did I miss_ _…_

As they arrived at the bedroom door and he reached forward to open it, his eyes fell on the keyhole.

Toris froze. "Oh my god."

"What?"

"Ohhhh my god… no, no, no, no…"

"What is it, what's happening?"

Toris didn’t notice the worry on Raivis’s face. All he knew was that Russia was about to release Prussia from the dungeon…

And the real key to that dungeon was in Eduard's pocket.


	7. Dušš — Shower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel less of a need for a disclaimer since it's in the tags, but this chapter begins a discussion of the Holocaust that will last throughout the story. Please understand my portrayal of the characters does not imply any broad statements like "all Germans were evil Nazis." I wrote the characters' reactions based on their individual worldviews, circumstances, and goals. I ask that as my readers, you approach this subject with maturity as the story goes on.
> 
> Thank you very much, and please enjoy Chapter 7.

Eduard wasn't sure how he had imagined waking up, but it certainly wasn't being rattled by the shoulder. In that moment, all flight-or-flight reflexes were replaced with an overpowering determination to _get some sleep._

" _Eduard!_ Eduard, wake up!"

Eduard groaned into his pillow. Maybe if he stayed in bed the crisis would go away.

A harsh whisper brushed his ear, " _I need the key."_

It took a moment for Eduard to process this. Why would Toris need the key? His words were slurred by exhaustion, "It's over, Toris. We can't change Prussia's mind."

"Yes we _can_ , because he is coming out of that dungeon whether he likes it or not. Now if you want Russia to have a key when he opens that door, then you'll give it to me, _right now."_

Eduard rolled over to squint at the blurred figure of Toris leaning over him. "…What?"

Toris wrung his hands, "The _key,_ Eduard!"

Eduard fumbled with the sheets as he reached down to pull the key from his pocket. "But how—what did you do?"

"I didn't do anything," Toris said taking the key from Eduard. A slight smile played his lips as he added, "Ivan did." Without another word, he sprinted out of the room.

"Toris, where are you going?" Raivis's voice called from the hallway, but his only answer was the slap of feet bounding up the stairs.

Eduard stared at the doorway in a daze. _Russia_ _…_ _is releasing Prussia from the dungeon?_

Raivis leaned into the room. "Is everything okay?"

 _Toris went to return the key_ _…_ _but what if Russia is already on his way to the dungeon? What if he realizes the key is missing?_

"Sitt."

Raivis's fingers tightened around the door frame. "Okay, everything is definitely _not_ okay."

Eduard rubbed his eyes and forced his nerves to calm—there was still a chance Toris could replace the key on time. He picked up his glasses from the side table and cleaned them with his nightshirt.

"It's nothing to stress over. What we should be worrying about is getting started on our morning duties."

Raivis didn't move from his spot by the door, looking at Eduard with concern. "You're… gonna be okay, right?"

Eduard cleared his throat, slipping on his glasses. "You'd better get dressed."

Raivis hugged himself as he walked to the dresser in silence.

Eduard massaged his temples, playing out the possible scenarios. If Russia caught Toris, he would have no way of knowing Eduard was part of the plot. Russia might still release Prussia from the dungeon, in which case the plan could work. But if Eduard ran to Toris's rescue, the plan would be ruined for sure.

Guilt settled in Eduard's stomach—despite all Toris had done to help, it was too dangerous to give him backup.

"Raivis."

The boy turned around, shouldering on his uniform jacket.

"No matter what happens, I want you to stick to your chores today. Stay away from Russia, understand?"

Dozens of questions swirled in those violet eyes. "Okay. And Eduard?"

Eduard braced himself for the inevitable interrogation. "Yes?"

"You… _are_ going to take a shower, aren't you? You smell really bad."

Eduard blinked at the unexpected question. He held out a sleeve in front of him, then took a whiff and almost gagged at the familiar stench of the dungeon. "Good heavens. Yes, I will definitely be taking a shower." He sent his brother a small smile. "Thank you for reminding me."

Raivis smirked. "Bitte sehr, Herr Österreich."

"What?"

"Nothing." Raivis fastened the last button of his uniform jacket and strode to the door.

Eduard frowned; he could have sworn that was German. "Remember what I said about your chores!"

"Yeah, no matter what, I got it!"

For perhaps the first time, Eduard was grateful for his brother's bluntness. It was a miracle Raivis hadn't recognized the smell, but if Russia were to catch a whiff of the dungeon, it would spell absolute disaster.

Eduard grabbed a uniform and headed to the shower, where he discovered that ridding himself of the incriminating evidence was easier said than done.

"Come _on,"_ he growled, scrubbing himself furiously for what must have been the fifth time. By now he was unsure if the stench was coming from him, or if it had been so branded into his memory that he was only imagining it. After the eighth rinse, he finally gave up.

Eduard stepped out of the bathtub, wrapping a towel around his waist and smearing the condensation from the mirror. He craned his head upwards, running a finger along the dark bruises encircling his neck.

There was a sharp knock. "Eduard, is that you? I've brought a scarf for the bruises."

Eduard froze at that voice, then threw open the door. Steam drifted into the hall around a grinning Lithuanian. Eduard scanned his brother's body for any sign of injury, stopping at Toris's left hand which was wrapped in thick bandages.

 _No_ _…_ _that means_ _—_

Toris must have seen the horror on his face. "Oh, Ivan didn't catch me. This was from a run-in with him this morning."

"What—"

"I'll explain once you finish cleaning up. And put this on, we can't risk having Ivan see your injuries."

Eduard took the knitted scarf from his brother. The weight of defeat that had crushed him all morning now lifted from of his shoulders, and for the first time in years Eduard felt something akin to happiness.

"The plan is going to work," he breathed, unable to believe it.

He saw a spark in Toris's eyes. "The plan is going to work."

By the time Eduard returned to the bedroom, Toris was sitting on his bed already dressed. The Lithuanian explained the situation as Eduard put on his uniform—how he had suggested a meeting to Russia, how Russia had refused, and how General Winter had come the very next night to warn Russia of NATO's strength, spurring him to schedule a meeting with Stalin's approval.

"And you won't believe this, but he wants _all_ of the republics to attend—us, the girls, the Caucasus—everyone is going to be there!"

Eduard frowned; something seemed off here. It was true NATO was growing stronger, but even Soviet schoolchildren knew that. Why would the General go through the trouble to warn Russia of something so obvious—and right after Toris had done the same thing? It was simply too much of a coincidence _._ Winter's visit had to be a cover-up… but why else would their master agree to hold a meeting, and with all of the republics no less? Could it be a part of a larger scheme?

 _The meeting was my idea_ _—_ _what could he be using it for?_

"Eduard? Is everything alright?"

Eduard pushed up his glasses. "I think Russia is lying."

"Lying? About what?"

"General Winter didn't come to warn him of NATO. It's too much of a coincidence—since when has Winter's interests aligned with ours?"

Toris's eyebrows shot up as if to say, _Good point._ "So why do you think Winter came?"

"That's not the issue. The real question is, why is Russia suddenly holding a meeting after all these years? And why would he want all of the republics there?" Eduard swiveled on his heel and began pacing around the room.

 _That's not all_ _—_ _the circumstances are even stranger if Prussia is involved._

"How do you know that Russia is going to release Prussia from the dungeon?” he asked. “Did he tell you point blank?"

Toris leaned back on his good hand, green eyes following Eduard's figure across the room. "He asked me to prepare a guest bedroom with chains; I don't see who else it would be for."

"That means the law requiring Prussia to attend is on the forefront of his mind. If that's the case, withholding a meeting could have been a direct method of keeping Prussia in the dungeon." Eduard brought up a hand to stroke his chin. "What has Russia said to you about Prussia in the last seven years?"

"Not much. Whenever he does, he talks as though he's killed him."

"No doubt he's been telling the world the same thing. That would explain why he hasn't told Prussia about the GDR."

"So… withholding a meeting means maintaining the lie that Prussia is dead?"

"Yes. Which means _holding_ a meeting is essentially a resurrection."

Toris frowned. "But… why would Ivan do that? He left Potsdam with Prussia slung over his shoulder like some kind of trophy—just think how it would look if the West found out he couldn't kill him."

"It would be an embarrassment," Eduard muttered.

"Exactly. With the power balance as it is right now, I'll bet America is holding his breath just waiting for a chance to humiliate Ivan. Prussia's 'resurrection' as you called it, would be the perfect opportunity."

Eduard was grateful for Toris's help—that kind of insight could save them from being outmaneuvered. "So… why, then? Is the whole thing a bluff? Or perhaps the meeting and Prussia are unrelated?"

There was a stretch of silence as the two brothers mulled it over. Eduard continued pacing, running through any scenario that could give Russia an advantage. It annoyed him that his master could be using his own plan for other means, but it wasn't a surprise. Russia only did things for personal gain.

Finally Toris offered, "What if Ivan doesn't take Prussia to the meeting at all? What if his 'release' is really a deportation?"

Eduard thought this through. "If Russia wanted to send Prussia to the Gulag, why couldn't he have done it before? Why release him now, in correlation to the meeting?"

"Could it be legal problems? Maybe he's bound—"

"The conditions at Potsdam gave Russia full authority to violate the Nation Treatment Code. He can do to Prussia whatever he wants."

"Even against Stalin's orders?"

“…No. You're saying Stalin could have ordered Russia to keep Prussia in the dungeon?"

Toris let out a deep sigh, falling backwards onto the mattress. "I can guess what Ivan wants, but I can't possibly know what Stalin has ordered him to do. The nation and the government are too separate—it's impossible to know what he's planning, or even if he's the one planning it."

Eduard pinched his nose—it was all too much, even for him. Winter's convenient visit, Prussia's sudden release, all of the republics _and_ satellite states under the same roof… something was definitely going on. He racked his brain for any other clues—a sign, _anything_ that could help predict Russia's plans. But as usual, their master left no trails for them to follow.

"I refuse to accept that any of this is a coincidence. But until we learn more, all we can do is hope that Russia's plans don't intersect with our own. We need Prussia, and we need him alive."

"AAAAEEEEEIIIAAAAHH!"

Eduard jumped and Toris shot upright in bed at the blood-curdling shriek that tore through the mansion. They locked eyes across the room, and Toris's shocked expression confirmed what Eduard already knew: That was Prussia's voice.

Eduard's hands balled into fists. "I will _not_ allow this plan to fall through just because Russia woke up a little bloodthirsty."

"There's nothing we can do."

"AAAAHHHHHH!"

Eduard flinched; it sounded as though Prussia was being tortured. _Damn you, Russia!_ Everything had finally fallen into place, the plan was going to _work,_ and now—!

"Yes there is," he growled, and before he could stop himself he was striding towards the door.

"Eduard, what are you—? Have you gone mad, we're powerless to stop Ivan and he won't hesitate to remind you of that! _Eduard!"_

Eduard broke into a run, ignoring Toris's protests. The entryways flew past as he followed the sounds of the screams deeper into the mansion, towards the dungeon door. He could hear a rapid roar of German, but it was still too far away to understand. The mere desperation in Prussia's voice sent horrible images flashing through his mind—what could Russia be doing to him?

A red blur shot out from behind a corner and slammed right into Eduard's chest. The air was knocked out of him, and he careened backwards before landing hard on the floor.

"Owwww, my head…" a voice whined.

Eduard grunted at the pain throbbing in his abdomen. He blinked at the blurry form of a boy sprawled in front of him. "Raivis, I thought we went over this!"

An arm shot out to press his glasses into his palm. Eduard slipped them on to see the boy's panicked expression. "But someone is _screaming!"_

Eduard pushed himself to his feet, wincing at the dizziness. "Yes, which is why it's not safe for you to be running through the hallways."

"But _you're_ running through the hallways!"

"AAEEEIIIIIIAAAHHHH!"

Eduard cursed under his breath, then jolted back into a sprint.

"Eduard, wait!"

He barely noticed the footsteps pattering after him as he picked up speed.

Deep shouts in Russian echoed through the walls: "I swear to God, Prussiya, if you do not SHUT UP then I will put you on the first train to Siberia, do you understand!? I am sick and tired of your— _insane_ —" Russia grunted. There was a string of curses and the rattling of chains.

"Did he say _Prussia?"_ Raivis panted from behind. "I thought Prussia was dead!"

" _Shh!"_ Eduard hissed. He staggered to a halt and grabbed his brother by the shoulder. Raivis let out a yelp as Eduard pulled him close, back pressed against the wall.

"NEEEEEIIINNNNNN!"

Prussia's scream broke with hysterical sobs in German, "Let me go, please, I-I don't want to go, I-I don't want—I'll do anything—Please, PLEASE!"

"It is a shower, you insufferable moron! Just—a goddamn—SHOWER!"

Eduard and Raivis looked at each other in bewilderment. _Shower?_ At last curiosity got the best of him and he peered around the corner into the hallway. Raivis followed suit, the two huddled together as they leaned out to see what was going on.

Russia stood in the hallway, feet spread in a defensive stance. He was breathing hard, and even from this distance Eduard could see bright red claw marks scarring the Russian's face and neck. He seemed to be struggling to force someone into a small bathroom. With one final shove Russia slammed the door shut, throwing his entire weight onto it and twisting the lock.

"NOO! No let me out, LET ME OUT!"

The door rattled violently on its hinges, the handle jerking up and down. Bangs and scratches echoed from inside of the bathroom—then a _THUD_ as the door was kicked from the inside.

Eduard stared in disbelief. A shower? Prussia was screaming because Russia forced him to take a _shower?_ He had risked running all this way to protect Prussia and now—!

Then it dawned on him. Last night Prussia had nearly killed Eduard at the mere suggestion of leaving the dungeon. His eyes widened as they fell on the torn, grimy fabric of Russia's sleeves. Prussia hadn't been screaming because of torture—he was screaming because _he didn't want out._

Russia's chest heaved with the effort of just having wrestled an insane Prussian, eyes burning with more rage than Eduard would have cared to be within range of.

"You are staying in there until you take a shower!" he roared over the racket from behind the door. "And I don't care if you _starve!"_ With that, Russia spun around and stormed down the hallway directly towards the two brothers.

Eduard gasped and pulled Raivis behind the corner. He glanced around for somewhere to hide, but there was nowhere to go.

Rapid footsteps neared, and a frazzled Toris staggered to a halt in front of them. "Have you two gone mad?" he hissed between gasps for air. "Get out of here before Ivan—"

"I do not recall giving permission to neglect your work, da?"

The Baltics jumped and turned to crane their necks up at their master. The cheery tone of his voice was a harsh contrast to the fire blazing in his eyes. Eduard shrunk backwards into the wall; Raivis looped thin arms around his.

That icy violet gaze slid in his direction. "Estonia. Perhaps you can explain the situation?"

Eduard shared a knowing glance with Toris. With Raivis here, he had no choice but to tell the truth. "It's my fault, sir. I heard the screams and ran to see what was going on, my brothers only followed."

Russia raised an intrigued eyebrow. "You are smart, Estonia. Surely you know that anyone who intervenes in my business will be punished?"

Raivis gasped, grip tightening around Eduard's arm.

He swallowed thickly. "Yes, sir."

Narrowed violets looked him up and down, and for a moment Eduard felt as though his master was discerning how difficult it would be to break him in half. A deep hum rumbled in the back of his throat.

"Very well, if you are so interested in my business… You will guard the bathroom door, da? If you are incompetent enough to let Prussiya escape, you will take his place in the dungeon."

Eduard shuddered; he intended to never walk down those stone steps again. "Yes, sir."

Cold eyes scanned over all of them, Russia's lips spread in a forced smile. "I have had a… difficult morning. Do not disturb me again, da?"

"Yes, sir," they answered in unison.

Russia turned to stride down the hallway, his shadow passing over them as boots thudded through the floor. Eduard caught a glimpse of scratch marks on Russia's face—he gulped; maybe guarding the bathroom wasn't going to be such an easy task.

The moment their master turned the corner, there was a collective sigh of relief. Raivis's grip loosened from Eduard's arm so his circulation could function again.

The boy marched into the center of the hallway, hands on his hips.

"Okay, does someone want to tell me what the heck is going on? Like, oh I dunno… why Prussia is ALIVE and you two are acting like it's completely normal? Tell me I'm not an idiot and haven't missed some important memo in the last seven years."

"You're not an idiot, Raivis," Toris sighed. "Russia has been pretending that Prussia is dead. We weren't sure if he was alive; it was just a hunch."

"But—how? Wasn't that the whole reason Russia took custody of him in the first place—to _kill_ him?"

Eduard bit back a groan; the situation was too complicated to explain right now. A shared glance with Toris, and the Lithuanian seemed to sense his mounting stress.

"I'll tell you what, Raivis—if you start your chores in the kitchen I'll make lunch and we can talk more about Prussia then. Okay?"

The boy scowled; he could tell they were pushing him away. "Fine. But no more weird surprises; at the very least I want to know how many _people_ are in this house."

"Five," Toris smiled. "That's a promise."

Raivis only hugged himself and shivered, muttering in Latvian as he stalked away, "Pieci, jā, tiešām! Tādā gadījumā _Baltkrievija_ ir slēpusies bēniņos pēdējos sešus gadus... biedējoši!"

Eduard and Toris watched him go, listening to the quick patter of footsteps fade down the hall.

_BANG!_

They jumped at the noise coming from the bathroom—it sounded as though Prussia was trying to break down the door. "I can't believe I risked running here for that lunatic," Eduard muttered. _At this rate I'll never get today's paperwork done._

But the spark in Toris's eyes told him his brother had an idea. "Actually, it's a good thing you did. Think about it: you'll be alone with Prussia, he has no choice but to listen to you, and now that he's stuck in the bathroom he can't hurt you. It's the perfect opportunity to convince him to help us."

_BANG!_

Eduard winced. "You think _he_ is going to help us?" Toris might not be so optimistic had Prussia held a knife to _his_ throat.

"It's not like he has an option. Whether he admits it or not, Prussia can't last a day in this mansion without our help. If he isn't realizing that now…"

_BANG!_

"If you're so sure of our leverage, why don't _you_ talk to him," Eduard huffed.

"Because you're the only one with a level enough head to put up with his bullshit—you ignore the distractions and cut to the chase. Ever wonder how Germany is able to handle him so well?"

Eduard blinked; he had never been compared to Germany before.

_BANG!_

Toris sent him a weak smile. "Don't think I don't know just how impossible Prussia can be. But you're better at this than you think, Eduard—you can get him on our side."

"But—"

"Meet me in the kitchen once Ivan relieves you of watch duty. We'll decide what to do then."

Eduard sighed in defeat; Toris was right. Being assigned to guard Prussia was an incredible stroke of luck, they wouldn't get a better opportunity to bargain with him.

"Alright, fine. But don't tell Raivis about the plan—just the basics of why Prussia is alive."

"My lips are sealed." Toris gave Eduard a strong pat on the arm, and it struck Eduard that he hadn't seen his brother this happy in years. There was a new energy about him—an excitement, an optimism that was typically absent. Just two days ago Eduard had accused Toris of being in love with their master, but now he wasn't so sure.

 _Ever since the war, Toris has been the most loyal to Russia_ _…_ _but now he's enjoying every moment of this!_

"Good luck," Toris said, and with a sharp nod he spun on his heel to head towards the kitchen. Eduard watched his brother go, wondering what had caused the sudden change in attitude.

_BANG!_

Eduard jumped at the sudden noise. It had sounded like metal-on-metal—what on earth was Prussia doing? He walked to the bathroom door, keeping his distance in case its prisoner somehow managed to break it down. "Preussen?" he called, hoping the Prussian might recognize his voice.

_BANG!_

There was a grunt, a creaking of metal, and then a clatter that sounded like something had fallen into the bathtub.

"Prussia, this is Estonia, we talked last night! Can you hear me?"

There was a strangled cry from behind the door, then what sounded like hyperventilation. After a few moments, the breathing escalated into coughing. Eduard frowned—he didn't recall the Prussian having a cough the previous night. There was a moaning shriek, and the coughing grew worse. Prussia wheezed and choked and hacked, moaning in pain in between ragged gasps for air.

Eduard was torn between Russia's orders and the possibility that his plan could be suffocating behind that door. His hands shook as his eyes fell on the bathroom lock.

"HELP! Somebody, PLEASE!"

That did it for Eduard—without giving himself a chance to change his mind, he unlocked the bathroom door and swung it open. "Prussia, what's going—" his voice died in his throat as he stared in shock at the scene before him.

Even after meeting him last night, Eduard had forgotten he still didn't know what Prussia looked like. He remembered vaguely from the party in '45, but that had been seven years ago. Now that Prussia was out in the open, seven years of abuse glistened for the world to see.

The first thing Eduard noticed was Prussia's back. Dark red flesh writhed and bulged in angry ridges, the skin split into glossy gashes that crisscrossed in the sick design of a chessboard. A stripe of raw muscle wrapped around Prussia's neck from where the chain had been, outlined with deep purple bruises. Similar scars circled both of Prussia's ankles.

Eduard had remembered the Prussian's hair as being snow white—now it was a dingy grey, hopelessly matted and encrusted with dried blood. In addition to cuts there were also burns—Eduard cringed upon seeing the sickle and hammer branded onto Prussia's hip. The scar rested above the waistline of a filthy tattered pair of trousers. At first Eduard thought the pants were dyed a brownish rust, then he realized the color was a patchwork of bloodstains.

Eduard's stomach churned with sickness.

_How could Russia do this?_

Prussia was collapsed onto his hands and knees. His entire body convulsed as he choked, clawing the cabinets with bloody fingers. Eduard swallowed the bile rising in his throat, forcing himself to recover from the shock of seeing Russia's prized prisoner.

"Prussia!" he called, crouching beside him to try and make eye contact. He reached out to touch a glossy shoulder, but Prussia recoiled and backed into the bathtub.

"Get away from me! I-I can't help you, I can't… you're all _dead!"_

His face snapped up and Eduard drew back in shock.

Prussia was crying.

Dark circles curved beneath his eyes; a startling crimson, almost identical in color to fresh blood. The whites were rimmed with pink as tears streamed down his face, carving lines of cream amid the grime that masked his face.

Eduard recognized that look. He had seen it many times before in his brothers' eyes after they awoke screaming from nightmares. All at once, Eduard understood:

_Prussia is having a flashback._

"Prussia!" He knelt down to look him in the eye. "You have to snap out of it! It's 1952! Do you understand me?"

Prussia curled into a ball, rocking back and forth and wailing into his knees. Eduard was unsure how to react to this. After so many years of dealing with Raivis, he should be able to handle tears fairly well, but this was different. Prussia was not in 1950's Moscow—he was somewhere else in the world, completely lost in the past.

Eduard peered around him to get a better look at the bathtub. Bloody handprints smeared across the white porcelain, and lying in the middle of the tub was—he did a double take— _The shower head?_ Looking up at its place on the wall Eduard saw a gaping hole, the tile shattered and bits of plaster flaking off. There were scratch marks where Prussia had pried off the tile. He frowned as he tried to imagine what kind of flashback Prussia could be going through.

_Why would he rip out the shower head?_

"Leave me alone… I-I can't help you, I _can't!_ " Prussia wailed, rocking back and forth with his head in his bleeding hands.

Eduard knelt down once again, determined to rescue the Prussian from whatever hell he was reliving. "Prussia," he said. "Prussia, look at me. You're safe, okay? Everything will be alright. Can you hear me?"

Prussia looked up from his knees, eyes searching wildly as though blind. He reached out with trembling fingers and seized Eduard's hand. Eduard tried to ignore the blood that squelched between the creases of his palm as his fingers curled around Prussia's in a firm grip.

"You're safe," he repeated. "Whatever you're going through, it's not real."

Prussia's chest heaved until at last his breathing steadied. He blinked rapidly, then locked gazes with Eduard. Those eyes were truly striking—a bright crimson lined with shocking white lashes that made Prussia look more beast than human. And with their close proximity, Eduard had the sudden feeling that he was the prey.

"Who… who are you?" Prussia rasped.

"I'm Estonia," Eduard said slowly, careful not to startle him.

"Estonia…" Prussia muttered. He let go of Eduard's hand, wiping the blood on his pants. "Estonia, Estonia…"

Now that he had emerged from the flashback, Eduard realized the danger of being this close to the nation who had almost killed him the night before. He slowly rose to his feet, backing towards the bathroom door.

"There's no point in hitting Estonia; that place has been Judenfrei since '41."

Eduard froze at the haunting word, the one that labelled every last Jew in his country dead.

"And do you mind telling me what the hell we're doing in a bathroom?"

 _No, it's not possible_ _…_ _is this another flashback?_

"We're in Moscow—"

"Moscow?! Why the hell—" Prussia looked down at the scars on his wrists. " _What?_ The Reds _captured_ us?! I told those idiots to keep an eye out for Soviet Partisans! What, they think SS uniforms are a fucking _joke!?"_

The sick feeling in Eduard's stomach grew worse. He'd heard horror stories from the other Third Reich territories of how Prussia had brutally interrogated them for information.

_So it's true. Prussia worked with the Gestapo._

"Forget that, right now we've gotta figure out how to get out of here." Bloodred eyes narrowed at Eduard. "Wait just a fucking minute. You're not in our squad, what the hell are you doing here?"

"I'm not—"

"Don't tell me you're one of these hotshots trying to sneak away and 'join the cause.' Gott knows I have enough trouble keeping your asses safe without you hopping in the back of a truck on some delusion of grandeur." Prussia gestured around to the bathroom. "You see what happens when you try to be a hero? This isn't a movie, kid. So don't come whining to me when the Russians have you strapped to a chair pulling out your fingernails."

"So that's what this is to you," Eduard said, voice shaking. "Just some heroic mission; a 'good deed' to make the world a better place?"

A bitter smile crossed Prussia's face. "You know what, since we're about to die anyway I'll let you in on a little secret."

He held out his right arm, then rolled it so the pale underside faced upwards. Eduard dared to lean in, eyes narrowing at what Prussia was trying to show him. Past a thick layer of grime and dried blood was some kind of writing in blue-green ink. The figures were sloppy and uneven, but at last Eduard was able to make out a six-digit number tattooed onto Prussia's forearm:

_63956_

Eduard's mouth fell open.

 _Wait_ _…_ _is that_ _…_ _?_

"I do this," Prussia hissed, "Because I don't have a fucking choice."

* * *

Fan art by [krazyperson6art](https://krazyperson6art.tumblr.com/post/639523672614404096/youre-safe-ok-so-this-is-only-the-second-time)

* * *

HISTORY NOTES

**SS**

The Schutzstaffel, literally "Protection Squadron" was the Nazis’ foremost agency of security, surveillance, and terror. The SS consisted of separate divisions, each with their own roles. The Gestapo began in 1933 as a Prussian secret police force, and was nationalized in 1936. They were tasked with the detection and neutralization of potential enemies of the Nazi state. After the invasion of Poland in 1939, many Gestapo agents were recruited to become members of the Einsatzgruppen, or "death squads" tasked with the extermination of the Jews in Nazi occupied territories. Einsatzgruppe A operated in the Baltic States, recruiting local units of auxiliary police that assisted the SS in identifying and murdering Jews. The Baltic States saw the highest percentage of Jewish eradication in all of Europe, with over 130,000 killed just within the first five months. (Source: Topography of Terror Former Gestapo Headquarters, Berlin)

**The Holocaust in Estonia**

Eastern Europe had been a thriving center of Jewish culture for centuries, especially the former Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth which was very tolerant. By WWII, Vilnius was called the "Jerusalem of the North" with 36% of the population being Jewish and Yiddish being a main business-working language in the area. In Estonia, however, Jewish culture was not nearly as prominent. In 1934 there were only 4,000 Jews in Estonia (0.4%) and by the time of the Nazi Occupation, many had either fled or been deported by the Soviet regime, leaving about 2,000. The remaining Estonian Jews were executed, and Estonia was declared "Judenfrei" or "free of Jews" by December of 1941. Estonia is one of the few countries in which the "Final Solution" was deemed 100% successful. (Sources: POLIN Museum of the History of Polish Jews in Warsaw, Jews of Daugavpils and Latgale Museum, and _Estonia and the Estonians_ by Toivo U. Raun)

In the whole of Estonia, there is only one Holocaust memorial. Reasons for this may include 1) the majority of Jews killed in Estonia were not Estonian, but were shipped in from other Eastern European countries to the aforementioned concentration camps, numbering at about 10,000. And 2) historically, Estonia did not have a rich Jewish culture or problems with antisemitism like the rest of Eastern Europe. As my professor put it, "To Latvians, the Holocaust is our tragedy. But to the Estonians, it is the Jews' tragedy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> Raivis's lines: "You're welcome, Mr. Austria" and "Five, yeah right. At this rate, Belarus has been hiding in the attic for the past six years... scary!" (Special thanks to my Latvian friend for help with this one)
> 
> No part of the Holocaust is comfortable to talk about, and I try to be as straightforward with the history as possible. Through my travels the tragedy has become real to me, and it is my goal to portray it as such in this story. So moving forward, please be aware that genocide will be a reoccurring topic. On that depressing note... comments?


	8. Rot — Red

Eduard gaped at the tattoo, speechless.

He had never seen one in person, but he had heard stories from other nations about visions they received of their people being branded like cattle upon arrival to the Nazi concentration camps. Those six digits were one of many steps in the process of dehumanizing prisoners—and in those kinds of conditions, few bearing the tattoo survived.

Two things struck him in that moment. The first was the horror that a nation could bear such a demeaning mark. And the second was his shock that _Prussia_ of all people had been imprisoned.

"Prussia… _you_ were in a concentration camp?"

Prussia snatched back his arm, eyes flashing with fear. "Why did you say that, you know what I am?"

Eduard decided to clear up the situation before the Prussian's composure devolved into another screaming episode.

"Prussia, the war is over. You're at Russia's mansion, remember? You've been locked in the dungeon for seven years, but Russia just released you today. That's why we're in Moscow."

Something changed in the crimson pools of Prussia's eyes, as though a veil had been lifted. He blinked, focusing behind Eduard to stare at the bathroom door. Prussia's gaze slowly climbed up to look at the walls and ceiling, then he twisted to face the sink.

"Wait. You mean… this is real?"

Eduard resumed his backwards escape, hand curling around the door handle.

Prussia's breathing escalated into panic. "Nein… nein, nein, nein, nein…" He scrambled to his feet and looked up at Eduard with the eyes of a caged animal. With a quick flick of his wrist, Eduard pushed open the bathroom door.

"NEIN!"

Prussia lunged forward, but Eduard darted out and pulled it shut just before the Prussian slammed into the other side. He twisted the lock as the handle jarred up and down, fists pounding on the wood.

"LET ME OUT!" Prussia screamed. "LET ME OUT OF HERE, I CAN'T BE IN HERE! You don't realize what you've done—I-I can't be in here, I have to go back, you—you have to take me back! TAKE ME BACK, DO YOU HEAR ME!?"

Eduard leaned against the door, weak from his narrow escape. _That was close._ He struggled to collect his thoughts, taking in everything he had just witnessed. The destroyed showerhead, the tattoo… Prussia's flashbacks all pointed to the same conclusion: He had been a prisoner at a concentration camp.

 _But_ _…_ _that's impossible! Prussia was the most brutal nation in the Third Reich, how could he have ended up a victim of his own regime?_

"HEY! I know you're still there!" Prussia pounded the door.

Eduard groaned; speculation would have to wait. For now he had one job, and that was to convince this lunatic to help them. He took a deep breath and turned to face the shuddering wood.

"Prussia," he called. "I can help you, but first you have to calm down."

"Calm down? CALM DOWN!? After seven years of telling me I'm dead, Snow Bastard suddenly decides I represent one of his damn states and you're telling me to calm DOWN!?"

Eduard's eyes widened. "Russia… said you're alive?"

"I don't know what kind of sick game he's playing at," Prussia growled. "First some Tea Boy comes stumbling down my staircase trying to tell me who I am and then—" He stopped midsentence. "Wait a minute. It was _you!_ You're the bastard who tried to tell me that I'm GPR or whatever—"

"GDR."

"Like I said! And then _what_ happens, right after you leave? Snow Bastard comes marching down those steps and tries to tell me the exact same thing! Who do you think you are, Tea Boy? You think that just because you and that psycho say I represent an entire country I can't even _feel,_ that you can just drag me out of my dungeon and stick me in an iron-pressed uniform, and everything will be sunshine and rainbows!?"

"Prussia, that's not—"

"No, I know EXACTLY what you're trying to do! You're trying to brainwash me into becoming another one of Snow Bastard's servants! You're going to give me 'responsibilities' and make me recite all this Soviet shit, so I'll believe that I'm one of _you!"_

Prussia's voice lowered to a deadly hiss. "Look, you sick manipulative bitch. I don't know what strings you pulled to get me out of there, but now you're going to pull them again and _get me back in."_

Eduard couldn't believe it. What if Prussia was right? What if Russia had given up, and was going to reverse the damage he had done on Prussia's psyche to create an obedient satellite state? Eduard shuddered at the thought of what a long, brutal process that would be. Prussia may be insane, but he had not been broken.

"Did you hear me, Tea Boy!?" Prussia shrieked. He kicked the door with each word. "I said _get_ — _me_ _—_ _out of_ _—_ _here!"_

Eduard took a step away from the door and started pacing.

If Russia was going to train Prussia to be a satellite state, that meant he would most likely stay in the mansion. Toris had suggested offering the Baltics' help in exchange for Prussia's cooperation, but Eduard had a feeling that bargain was one the Prussian was far from willing to make.

_If a trade-off won't work, then what will?_

Eduard remembered Prussia's words from last night:

" _Manipulation and bribery with a knife to your throat? You really are a nation."_

It had been that point at which Prussia climbed off Eduard; even warmed up to him. Eduard realized that if he was going to negotiate with Prussia, he would have to _act_ like Prussia—which meant capitalizing on his weaknesses. And if Eduard was right in deducing that Prussia's flashbacks were not meant to be seen, he had just discovered the biggest weakness of all.

"Prussia," he called through the door, waiting for the banging to stop. "What happened to you during the war?"

"What war," Prussia growled.

"The Great Patriotic War. The one that ended seven years ago."

For a long time, Prussia was silent. "Why does it matter?"

"Just now during your flashback, you showed me an arm tattoo. It resembled an identification number, like what the Nazis gave prisoners at concentration camps."

More silence. Finally Prussia said in a hollow voice, "It's a fake."

"What?"

"That tattoo is a fake. Russia gave it to me as some kind of sick payback; real creative, that one."

So Eduard was right—Prussia didn't want anyone to know the true origins of the tattoo. He pressed further, "If Russia gave it to you in the last seven years, explain to me how you would have referred to it during your flashback. And don't say it was a modern flashback; you mentioned the SS."

Colorful German curses echoed from behind the door. "Fuck if I know what date is what, everything is scrambled in my head! The damn tattoo is a fake, what more do you want to know!?"

"Ah, then I should ask Russia about it? I'm sure he'd be happy to brag about how he came up with the idea—"

"ALRIGHT, what do you want!?"

Eduard fought down a smirk; he had played the part so perfectly that Prussia already knew he was using the tattoo as blackmail.

"Exactly what I said last night. If you agree to help me and my brothers, I won't breathe a word to anyone about your flashbacks or the tattoo."

"You're sick, you know that? Like a little socialist parasite, controlled by Soviet pheromones. A fucking crony, that's what you are. I'd buy a ticket to Siberia before becoming like _you."_

Eduard cringed at the accusations. It was true—with the countless documents he signed each day, he often felt like one of Russia's henchmen. But what choice did he have? If he refused, the regime would only make life for his people more unbearable.

"Do we have a deal?"

There was a growl from the other side of the wood. "I don't trust you for a goddamn second. Unless you find a way to shake my hand through this door, there's no deal."

Eduard knew exactly what Prussia was trying to do. If he so much as cracked that door open, the ex-Nazi would be out and headed straight for the dungeon, even if it meant killing Eduard on the way.

He pulled a small pad of paper and pen from his uniform jacket. "We'll have it in writing then. I, the nation of Prussia, uphold my word to fulfill the conditions as follows. One: I will not physically injure Estonian representative Eduard von Bock, nor will I make any attempt to take his life or that of his brothers."

"Wait, are you actually writing—HEY! I said a handshake, not a fucking declaration of independence!"

"Two: I will take a bath as instructed by my sovereign."

Prussia groaned. "You did NOT just call Snow Bastard my sovereign. And please tell me you don't just _happen_ to have a pen on you. What do you do for fun, make lists of all the shit you're gonna do by yourself because you're too lame to have friends?"

Eduard’s eye twitched. He breathed through his nose and forced himself to continue.

"Three: I will cooperate in any future plans to assist with the investigation of Russian representative Ivan Braginsky, in full acknowledgment that this may involve the risk of my personal safety."

"Look, we're all very impressed you can fit that aristocrap vocabulary of yours onto whatever little black book you have shoved up your ass. But I already told you: no handshake, no deal."

The pen shook in Eduard's hand as he struggled to control his temper. _Nations can shake hands all day, but history is written by paperwork._

He continued, "I, Estonian representative Eduard von Bock, uphold my word to fulfill the conditions as follows: I will keep all information regarding Prussia's past strictly classified unless the nation of Prussia fails to fulfill any of the above conditions, in which case the disclosure of this information is granted to my disposal."

Eduard scribbled his signature and slid the pad and pen beneath the crack in the door. He waited, listening to the scrape of the journal as Prussia picked it up.

"This is the shittiest deal I've ever seen. I have three conditions, you only have one! 'Risk of my personal safety,' what the hell does that mean?"

"It ensures you are fully aware of the seriousness of the situation. And you're hardly in a position to negotiate."

Prussia muttered more curses, from which Eduard heard the words _socialist_ and _bastard_ quite a few times. Finally, he heard the scratch of pen on paper, then the pad slid out from under the door. Eduard bent down to pick it up, wincing at the bloody fingerprints. Prussia grumbled some more, but eventually the bathwater turned on.

Eduard fell back against the door, pinching his nose.

_I did it._

He held out the notepad to see a sloppy _Gilbert Beilschmidt_ scrawled across the page.

"Gilbert," Eduard muttered. He remembered Austria and Germany referring to Prussia by his first name, but after all of these years he had forgotten it. "Prussia's name is Gilbert."

Eduard raised his eyebrows. _Prussia has a name._

But it struck him that the Prussian had much more than a name. He had family and friends who must think him dead. He had an entire history, full of secrets that Eduard didn't understand. He had a signature and red eyes and bloody fingerprints.

Eduard's hand clenched around the journal. _He's a nation._

For seven years Eduard had suspected Prussia's death was a lie without lifting a finger to challenge it. He recalled the certainty with which Prussia had screamed he was dead. Was that partially Eduard's fault? Could he have done anything to save Prussia sooner?

Eduard snapped the journal shut and slipped it into his pocket; there was no use in brooding over the past. He took a deep breath and started pacing.

Eduard had just witnessed not one, but _two_ flashbacks from Prussia. It seemed that in each one, Prussia had been playing completely opposite roles. In the first, Prussia could have been inside of a gas chamber—the violent coughing and destroying of the showerhead gave that much away.

But in the second, Prussia seemed to be in command of an Einsatzgruppe squad. If Eduard was understanding the connection correctly, the Nazis may have imprisoned or gassed Prussia in order to _force_ him to join the Einsatzgruppen. But based on what Toris and the other former Third Reich territories had told him, Prussia had been more than happy to carry out the Nazis' dirty work. Not only that, but he had been named High Commander of Army Group North.

_Why would the Nazis force Prussia to switch to a death squad in the middle of the invasion, when he was already loyal to the Nazi cause?_

"FUCK!"

Eduard jumped at the sudden exclamation. He rushed to the door. "What's wrong?"

"Goddammit, Russia, trying to boil me alive, are you!? Finally succumbed to your cannibalistic instincts, I see!? Fucking Commies, can't even grow enough food to feed themselves, so they gotta devour each other instead…"

Eduard bowed his head, rubbing his temples. "Just don't turn the water all the way to hot."

"Shut up, savage! You just like your boiled nation lukewarm!"

Eduard sighed as he remembered that Prussia's past was the least of his worries. Russia had told Prussia he represented GDR, but Eduard couldn't be sure of his true intensions. Even if his master did intend to train Prussia to be a satellite state, it was possible he'd be shipped off to military training, or into custody of the secret police. Prussia was useless to the plan running laps in the Caucasus.

But now that Prussia had signed their agreement, he would have to behave… _Which makes training him in Moscow a more viable option._

Eduard eyed the door as he listened to the water shut off. If he brought a showered, stitched, and properly dressed Prussia to his master, Russia might be more inclined to let Prussia stay at the mansion. It would be risky, and technically disobeying Russia's command to guard the door… but Eduard knew that if he didn't take initiative, both he and Prussia would be stuck in this hallway for days.

He stopped pacing to straighten his uniform and cross his arms in front of the door. "When you're ready, I'm going to come in and dress your wounds."

Eduard expected a sharp retort, but there was no answer. "Prussia? Are you alright in there?" Eduard pressed his ear up against the wood. Not a single sound came from the bathroom. Against better judgement, he unlocked the door and peered inside.

Prussia stood in front of the sink, a towel around his waist. He jerked back an outstretched hand from the mirror as though he had just seen a ghost.

"Are you alright?" Eduard asked again. He was nervous this could be another flashback.

"Of course I'm not alright." Prussia tried to sound angry, but his voice cracked. "Just _look_ at me!"

Eduard allowed his gaze to fall from Prussia's face to his chest. His skin was no longer a grimy grey but a porcelain white. His short, spiky hair had returned to shining snow, the strands dripping with water. Prussia's face much less resembled that of a monster—his ruby eyes were bright against the pale shade of his complexion, sharp cheekbones and a pointed nose giving away Germanic roots. His figure wasn't bad either, for having spent so long in the dungeon—thin, but toned. The shower had exposed the true colors of Prussia's countless bruises. They splotched all over his body, from deep purples to sickly greys and blues. His open wounds were a scarring red, the skin swollen and pink where there had been infections.

Looking at the ex-Nazi, Eduard was stricken with two things. One: Prussia was about his height. This felt strange, as Eduard was used to the proud nation stalking around in tall boots or on a horse, usually in military uniform and smirking down at anyone who crossed his path.

And the second was how… _vulnerable_ Prussia looked. His hair unkept, barely clothed marred with writhing scars from head to toe. It was so different from the dictator-like image Eduard had always imagined. Prussia looked… Eduard exhaled at the realization.

_He looks like us._

"Alright, that's enough looking," Prussia snapped.

Eduard's eyes darted away; he hadn't meant to stare. "I'm going to stitch you up."

"And the mindless henchman does something _noble_ for the first time in his life," Prussia muttered, lowering himself to the floor.

Eduard fought down the anger that flared inside him at those words. How dare Prussia call him a mindless henchman, when he himself had commanded a death squad!

Eduard held back a scoff as he took out the suture kit and bandages from the cabinet under the sink. He squirted antibiotic onto his hands, placing the smooth gel over the glossy red muscle on Prussia's back.

"I'm afraid I'll have to sew this up without any anesthesia."

Prussia shrugged, the motion causing his scars to stretch upward and then sag again as he hunched over and began tapping his fingers on the bathroom floor. He remained strangely quiet as Eduard continued to apply the gel to the remainder of his scars. Eduard took out a needle and thread, hovering the sharp point over the edge of a cut.

"Okay, I'm going to put the needle through."

Prussia said nothing. Eduard worried he might be in some kind of trance, and the needle prick would send him off on another rampage. He took a deep breath, placing his fingers on Prussia's back and sinking the needle through the skin.

Prussia didn't even flinch.

Eduard waited a few moments for a reaction, but the Prussian remained still. He slid the needle through the other side of the cut, pulling the thread through. "Does that hurt?"

Prussia let out a short laugh. "I'll bet you don't know the sound your intestines make when they hit the floor. It's kind of like… if you were to drop a giant pot of spaghetti."

Eduard stiffened. Of course being stabbed by a needle was child's play to Prussia after seven years of torture.

The minutes passed in silence as Eduard continued to repair as much of the damage as he could. Most of Prussia's wounds had already scarred, but many of them were fresh or in the process of healing. Eduard's fingers moved swiftly as the needle wove in and out of Prussia's skin.

"Do you ever wonder why blood is red?"

Eduard didn't answer, expecting this to be another sarcastic comment.

"And not just a rusty red, or an earth tone red… but shocking, 'Jesus Christ, I'm _bleeding_ ' red. That shit's not normal, it's gotta be red for a reason."

Eduard peered over his shoulder to see the Prussian flexing his hand, tendons rippling beneath the greenish numbers. "You can't ignore that red. It gets everywhere—in your fingernails, your hair, your clothes. You might have a tiny little cut that you have no idea about, but then you start touching things and you're like, 'shit, I'm bleeding, better get that stitched up.' It's like it protects us, you know?"

Eduard didn't answer—he hadn't expected Prussia to have a philosophical side. Having finished with Prussia's back, he asked to see his arm. Prussia didn't respond, gaze fixed on the bathroom tile.

"I've been blind for seven years. I forgot that blood was red."

Eduard didn't know what to say. It seemed as though a defense had fallen away from Prussia—as if for the first time, he was admitting how the dungeon had damaged him. Prussia turned to face him, and when Eduard looked into those shocking red eyes, he saw fear.

"What is Russia going to do to me?"

Eduard wished he knew the answer. Until now, he had been indifferent to Prussia's fate as long as it didn't intervene with his plan. But looking into those ruby eyes, he saw a nation terrified by an uncertain future. Eduard knew exactly how it felt to be at the mercy of powerful nations, not knowing what fate they may decide for him and his people.

"I'm sorry," he said in a soft voice. "I don't know."

Prussia scoffed. "Oh wow. So mister pen-up-his-ass _doesn't_ know everything."

Eduard shot him a glare over the rims of his glasses. "Give me your arm."

"What if I don't want your socialist fingers poking around in my arm?"

"I hate to impose, but since you signed the agreement it doesn't _matter_ what you want."

Prussia let out a growl, then he grabbed Eduard by the collar and wrenched him forward so their faces were inches apart.

"Listen to me, you manipulative Communist wench. You might have gotten me to sign your precious piece of paper, but don't think that'll stop me from making your already pathetic life a living _hell_. You dragged your fancy ass into my dungeon last night, and the next thing I know Snow Bastard is dragging me out. Now you can tell me that's a coincidence until your pretty face turns blue, but if experience has taught me anything it's that you Soviet fuckers are all _liars._ You'd suck Russia's arctic cock before disobeying him, so don't you _dare_ act like you're the one in control here."

Prussia was so close, Eduard's eyes watered from the heat of his breath. While the ex-Nazi may be weak, he was used to bullying others into getting his way… and that wasn't likely to change anytime soon.

_Duly noted._

Eduard pried Prussia's bony fingers from his collar, shoving him away as he stood up "Fine," he ground out through clenched teeth. He pulled down a fresh uniform from a cabinet and shoved it into Prussia's chest. "If you're so concerned with who's in control, let's pay him a visit, shall we?"

Prussia looked down at the uniform and scrunched his nose. "This is a Soviet uniform."

"Yes. You're in the Soviet Union."

Prussia balled a fist around the fabric, flaming red eyes glaring through silver bangs. "I will _never_ become like you."

Eduard shuddered. This was not the first time he had glimpsed such fiery determination in the eyes of Russia's subordinates… But Eduard knew all too well the consequences of that attitude, and it was an experience he would prefer not to repeat.

After Prussia changed into his uniform, the two began the journey to Russia's office. Eduard kept a close eye on the Prussian—while he knew Prussia understood the power of a signed contract, the ex-Nazi was still unpredictable. However, he was surprisingly silent as they walked through the halls. He craned his neck upwards, taking in the wallpaper and woodworks. At first Eduard wondered what could be so fascinating about Russia's cold sense of interior design, until he remembered that Prussia had been trapped in pitch blackness until today. All of the new designs, textures, and colors must be overwhelming him.

Prussia stopped short when they approached a portrait of Stalin. His eyes narrowed as he examined the dictator. "I know that face…"

"That would be our Great Leader, Comrade Stalin." Eduard didn't bother to leave the sarcasm out of his tone.

Prussia snorted. "That psycho finally kicked the bucket, ja?"

"Ah… no, he's very much still alive."

"Really?"

Eduard nodded.

"That's funny, most Russian leaders get a knife in their back after a few years." Prussia turned back to the portrait. "What'll it be then, _Comrade?_ Food poisoning? A bullet through the brain? Or maybe you'll kill yourself, just like that other son of a bitch." He spat at the portrait. "I'll see you in Hell."

Eduard shuddered. He would be lying to say he had never been tempted to insult the dictator's portraits, but to do so was asking for a ticket to Siberia.

"It would be wise not to make a habit of insulting him," he muttered. "He has ears everywhere."

Prussia smirked. "They all do, kid. The trick is to know what they're listening for."

As they continued through the halls, Eduard considered the Prussian's words. He was sure Prussia had referred to Hitler just now, but what surprised him was the insult. Of course, even the most loyal Nazis had reservations against their leader as it became clear they were losing the war.

_Or is it because Hitler played a part in Prussia's imprisonment?_

Eduard took a breath to ask, then stopped himself. Judging by the intensity of Prussia's flashbacks, his past would be a good subject to avoid.

They were about halfway to the office when they passed the entrance to a dining room. Out of the corner of his eye, Eduard caught a flash of a green uniform.

He stiffened. _What is Toris doing here, shouldn't he be in the kitchen?_

Perhaps the Lithuanian was taking a break to help Raivis with his chores. Eduard hadn't counted on running into his brothers on the way to Russia's office. It would be best if he saved the introductions for later—there was no telling what kind of trouble Prussia could stir up.

"Eduard? What are you doing?"

_Sitt._

It seemed Eduard had used up his luck. He paused and backtracked to the doorway. Toris stood behind a massive oak table, surrounded by stacks of elegant china. He held a plate in his bandaged hand, pressing a polishing rag to its surface with the other.

"Aren't you supposed to be guarding the—" Just as Prussia came up behind Eduard, he saw the blood drain from Toris's face. "He… _escaped?"_

Eduard rushed to explain, "It's not what it looks like. We've made a deal—"

"Hey I know that face, too!" Prussia narrowed his eyes at Toris. "Only this one looks like he got lost on the way to the gay bar."

" _Prussia!"_ Eduard hissed.

Toris only stared at Prussia, not having understood the insult and perhaps taken aback at his old rival's disheveled appearance. It was then Eduard realized English would have to become the language of operation if Toris was going to understand anything, and his brain yet again scrambled for words.

"Uhm… we're… going to Russia's office." Eduard shot Prussia a warning look. " _Now."_

Prussia ignored him, crossing his arms. He seemed to catch the hint, switching languages without a beat as he said, "So which of the Three Bitches are you?"

Toris's face contorted into an array of emotions that Eduard couldn't place. "I—three _what?"_

"We should go," Eduard muttered, pulling on Prussia's arm. He didn't budge.

"Hmmm," Prussia hummed to himself, scanning Toris up and down. "Oh yeah, you're definitely the slut."

There was a clatter as the plate slipped from Toris's hand. "I'm sorry," he scoffed. " _Where_ did you get this information?"

"Leaving," Eduard growled in German through clenched teeth. "Leaving _now."_

"Mm-hm, I see it now. You're exactly the kind of pretty boy Russia would go for—he has a thing for long hair. I mean I do too of course; I just prefer it in… well." Prussia smirked. _"An Frauen."_

Toris's hand clenched the rag into a wad. "What are you going to do, force me to wear a pink triangle?"

Eduard could see this going in a very bad direction. "He's trying to cause trouble," he said to Toris in Russian. "Just ignore him."

"Oh, that won't be necessary." Eduard turned to see Prussia prop a boot against the table, lips twisted into a wicked grin. "I already have."

Eduard barely processed that Prussia understood Russian before he realized what the ex-Nazi was about to do.

"Prussia, _don't!"_

But it was too late. With a strong kick, Prussia sent the entire table toppling over. The wood groaned as it seemed to fall in slow motion, precious dishes sliding off and hovering in mid-air in a moment of zero gravity before exploding on the floor at Toris's feet.

_CRRAAASSHH!_

The sound of breaking plates and cups and bowls was deafening, the table deflected the porcelain bullets to where Toris stood. The Lithuanian shielded his eyes with an arm, his bare hand glinting with slits of fresh blood.

Mad cackles echoed around the room. "Whoops! Looks like pretty boy broke the dishes! Master Russia won't be too happy about _that,_ now, will he?"

Eduard felt weak as he stared at the carnage before him.

 _No_ _…_ _no, no, no, no!_

"Toris," he said, voice shaking. His brother stood motionless, head bowed so a curtain of hair covered his face. Blotches of crimson soaked through his uniform, shards of glass piercing through his skin.

Eduard’s mask of calm shattered. He rounded on Prussia, voice falling to a deadly hiss, " _Do you realize what you've done?!"_

Prussia raised an eyebrow. "You're forgetting, Tea Boy, that _you_ are the reason I'm in this mess. You think I give a shit about you or your pathetic brothers? For all I care, Russia can—" he was interrupted with the _CRACK_ of knuckles connecting with jaw.

Toris stood with his feet apart, his breathing harsh as blood trickled down a cut in his forehead.

"Do NOT speak of my brothers like that.”

Prussia spat a glob of saliva onto the floor as he regained his balance. Eduard saw a flash of recognition in those eyes. "Ah, now I remember. You're the Polish brat's armpiece. Uselessuania, was it? I thought you had a punchable _face!_ "

With the last word, Prussia took a swing at Toris. Toris dodged it, but Prussia grabbed him by the collar and slammed him against the wall. His lips pulled into a bloody smile. "You can never win, can you?"

Toris snarled through his teeth and brought a knee up into the Prussian's crotch. He howled in pain, bending over so that his grip loosened. Toris twisted away, shoving Prussia with such force that he fell backward onto the shards of glass. The Lithuanian was over him in a second, knee dug into Prussia's chest as a hand closed around his throat.

"Apologize," he hissed, in a ragged voice Eduard didn't recognize.

"For _what?"_ Prussia spat, his words gargled from being choked.

Toris seemed too enraged at this answer to respond, his hand trembling at Prussia's neck.

Eduard finally managed to recover from his shock. "What are you doing!?" he cried in Russian. "You're only making things worse!"

"This is between me and Prussia," Toris panted. "Get out of here so Ivan won't blame you."

"But—"

"I said, _run,_ Eduard!"

Prussia snatched up a shard from the floor and sank it into Toris's thigh. He let out a cry of pain, and the Prussian reached up to grab his wrists. He flung his weight to the side, rolling over Toris and going in for a stab to the throat. Toris blocked the stab with one arm and snatch up his own shard of china with the other. He dragged it along the length of Prussia's forearm, drawing a bright red stream of blood.

Toris kicked Prussia off him and rolled across the floor, then sprung to his feet. His arms were loose at his side, feet spread and eyes hardened with the focus of battle. The bandage on his left fist made him look like a boxer. 

Prussia took the same stance as Toris. He chuckled darkly, not seeming to mind the blood dripping from his arm. "It's been too long." The sentence was a hum of satisfaction, and Eduard knew that Prussia was more than capable of taking Toris down.

"Have you both gone mad!?" Eduard shouted. "Russia will be here any moment!"

"Well we wouldn't want him to miss the show, would we?" Prussia sneered. "I want that bastard to hear his precious little bitch _begging_ for help."

"Eik nachui," Toris snarled, and darted forward to throw another punch.

Prussia caught his arm with ease, twisting it around his back and forcing Toris to his knees. Eduard felt as though he were watching himself in the dungeon all over again.

"Go on, then," Prussia hissed. "Call for your master."

Toris didn't respond, panting through his teeth.

"If you won't, then your _brother_ will!" Prussia gave Toris's arm a sharp twist and the Lithuanian let out a cry of pain. Crimson eyes darted up to meet Eduard's. "Well?"

Eduard realized with dread there was nothing else he could do. He backed out of the dining room, and turned around to run straight into a giant pillar of muscle and overcoat. His nostrils filled with the familiar scent of vodka, and for a moment the world swayed before him.

"Master Russia, sir," he stuttered, unable to form a sentence past the panic seizing his chest.

Russia shoved him aside with enough force to send Eduard staggering across the room. Porcelain shards crunched underfoot as the Russian stepped through the entryway. Violet eyes took in the scene, then came to rest on the two bleeding nations crouched in the center.

Prussia leaned over to whisper in Toris's ear, "Go on, Useless. Ask your boyfriend to save you." Eduard was shocked to hear accented Russian, as though Prussia had been speaking the language for years.

Toris's head was bowed, hair hanging to conceal his face. His breathing was remarkably calm.

Prussia growled in frustration, twisting his arm again. "ASK HIM!"

"Prussiya." Russia raised a pistol to Prussia's head. "Enough."

A wicked grin flashed across Prussia’s face. "Alright, if you want to play that way…" He grabbed another shard from the floor, holding it to Toris's neck. "You put me back in the dungeon, and I'll let your little toy live."

Eduard gasped. _No_ _…_ _was this Prussia's plan the entire time!?_

He thought the fight was just a byproduct of Prussia's insanity, but it was now clear the ex-Nazi had found a strategy for getting back into the dungeon.

Eduard couldn't believe this was happening. _This is my fault._ If he had just left Prussia locked in the bathroom like Russia had told him to! Now not only was Toris's life in danger, but Russia would never keep Prussia in the mansion if he was threatening to kill his subordinates!

Eduard held his breath, eyes flicking from Prussia, to Russia, and back again.

"That 'little toy' is part of your family now. Let him go."

Prussia's voice grew shrill as he screamed, " _I'm not a part of your demented family!"_

Eduard winced, and he heard a sharp gasp from Toris as the blade scraped a thin cut across his neck. Still Russia didn't waver from his position, the gun trained to Prussia's forehead. His voice was silky and smooth with the calm of an empire who knew he was in control.

"If you wait too long to release Lithuania, I will shoot you. If you slit his throat, I will shoot you. And when you wake up, you will be in the same position as you would if you were to release him now: Under _my_ authority, as the German Democratic Republic." His eyes narrowed. "I am not the one who is out of options, Prussiya. Your only decision is whether you will attend that meeting with or without a bullet in your skull."

Eduard was surprised at his master's words. Did Russia really intend to tame Prussia into a subordinate… even after this?

Defeat crossed Prussia’s expression, but it was soon replaced with a snarl. He leaned to Toris's ear and hissed, "You're not _worth_ it." He shoved Toris forward so that his face hit the ground, glass crunching beneath his boots as he stepped over him.

Toris remained with his face pressed to the floor, trembling.

Russia made no move to help him. "Get up."

Toris hissed in pain, legs shaking as he rose to his feet. A thin stream of blood ran down his neck where Prussia had cut him, strands of hair stuck to his face with sweat.

But the most shocking aspect of Toris's appearance was not his injuries. Eduard had expected to see the same shell-shocked expression Toris often wore after beatings from Russia… but this was something completely different. Eduard shuddered—he hadn't seen that look in his brother's eyes since the war.

Russia's sharp gaze darted between the three of them. "I expect one of you has an explanation for this, da?"

The room was silent.

Russia pocketed his pistol. "Very well. To my office, all of you."

* * *

Fan art by [zeawezumprussia](https://zeawezumprussia.tumblr.com/post/180798682710/yay-i-finally-finished-my-fanart-for-diamond-in)

* * *

HISTORY NOTES

**Army Group North**

Operation Barbarossa, or the Nazi invasion of the Soviet Union in 1941, was the largest land invasion in the history of warfare. The Axis deployed 4 million personnel over a front that extended 2,900 km. To cover such an expansive distance, the Nazi army was divided into three main groups: Army Group North, Center, and South. Army Group North pushed through the Baltic States with its final destination as Leningrad, while Army Group Center swept through Southern Lithuania and Northern Belarus with its goal of reaching Moscow. (Source: Belarusian Great Patriotic War Museum)

**Hitler's Death**

By early 1945, it had become clear that the Nazis were losing the war. Hitler retreated to his Führerbunker in Berlin on 16 January 1945. After heavy bombardment by Soviet artillery on April 20, he announced that he would stay in the bunker until the end and shoot himself. On April 29 he married Eva Braun, and the next day said his last farewells to the Führerbunker staff. Hitler and his new wife then went into his study, and an hour later a gunshot was heard. Hitler was found on the sofa in a pool of his own blood next to his wife who had been poisoned with cyanide. Not wanting his body to be made into a spectacle like Mussolini, Hitler ordered his corpse to be burned in the bunker courtyard. Later when no evidence of his death was found, Stalin refused to believe that Hitler was dead, and rumors circulated that he had escaped from Germany to Argentina. The FBI case on his death wasn't officially closed until 1956.

**Pink Triangle**

The Nazi concentration camp system used different symbols to identify the prisoners' reason for arrest. The most well-known of this is the Star of David for Jews, but other symbols were used as well. Soviet prisoners of war were marked with a yellow "SU," political prisoners were marked with a red triangle, Roma were marked with a black triangle and a small "z" on a white square, and homosexuals were marked with a pink triangle. (Source: Auschwitz-Birkenau Museum)


	9. Сделка — Deal

Toris was acutely aware of every breath taken by the four of them, each set of footsteps that echoed on the floor as they followed Ivan's looming figure through the hallways.

He knew he should feel afraid, but for some reason the emotion that gripped him was excitement. A transformation had occurred in that dining room—a focus, a clarity Toris hadn't known in years. He felt _alive_ _—_ finally able to fight for something instead of cowering from it. Over a decade ago he was robbed of the chance to defend his people. But to hear the _crack_ of Prussia's jaw as his fist met its mark, to feel the muscle and tendons strain beneath his fingers… it gave Toris a sense of justice that he had not felt in a very long time.

Glancing at the nations around him, Toris could see they did not share his enthusiasm. Ivan took long strides, his expression stony and without a trace of his usual childish smile. Eduard looked terrified, all blood drained from his face and glasses slipping from beads of sweat collecting on the bridge of his nose.

Toris wanted to assure his brother that there was nothing to worry about, that Ivan would blame Prussia for the fight—until he remembered the Estonian had been ordered to keep Prussia locked in the bathroom.

_Eduard, what were you thinking?!_

Even so, he would do everything in his power to protect his brother from Ivan's wrath.

Toris was so lost in thought, he barely noticed when they came to the giant oak door of Russia's office. He nearly ran into Ivan as they stopped short at the end of the hallway.

"Lithuania, I will deal with you first. Estonia, you will wait here until I am finished."

The adrenaline drained from Toris's system as he registered what this meant. _Ivan is bound by the deal; he can't hurt Eduard. But if he wants to punish someone for Prussia's escape_ _…_

"And what am I supposed to do, scrub these losers' guts from the floor?" Toris flinched at Prussia's comment; it was a legitimate question.

With a quick motion, Ivan grabbed Prussia by the shoulder and slammed him against the wall, holding his wrists behind his back. An impressive stream of Russian curses flew from Prussia's mouth as Ivan pulled a pair of chained shackles from his overcoat.

"You," he snarled into the Prussian's ear with the _click_ of shackles snapping shut, "Will _not_ cause any more trouble."

Prussia chuckled darkly. "If you didn't want trouble, you should have left me in the dungeon."

Ivan tugged on the chains so that Prussia stumbled into a wooden pillar. He separated them, forcing Prussia's arms to bend backwards around it. He hoisted him up, then secured the chains using a padlock. Prussia hissed in pain as the shackles dug into the raw scars on his wrists.

"Or I could just leave you hanging here to rot, da?" Ivan smiled. "You'd make a nice addition to my portrait collection."

Prussia opened his mouth to shoot another insult, but Ivan continued,

"And if I hear one more sound out of you, I will cut out your tongue."

For a moment Prussia seemed to consider whether he was willing to risk it or not. After a moment of studying Ivan's harsh gaze, his mouth snapped shut. It was unusual for the Prussian to back down; Ivan must have used that form of punishment before.

The Russian pulled open the office door and motioned for Toris to step in, a creepy smile lighting up his face. "You first, Lithuania."

Toris gulped and straightened, catching an anxious glance from Eduard as he stepped into the office. Ivan followed, the great oak door swinging shut with a deep groan. The last thing he saw was the glare of Eduard's glasses before it shut with a resonating _thump_ that echoed through the office _._

The room was dark, books and furniture bathed in a cool blue shadow. When Ivan made no move to turn on the lights, Toris was overcome with a wave of nausea—his master always preferred to draw blood in the dark. He reached up with trembling hands to unbutton his uniform jacket.

"There will be no need for that."

Toris froze in surprise.

Ivan's lips pulled into a cold smile, gesturing to his desk. "Have a seat."

A new uneasiness came over Toris; if Ivan wasn't going to beat him then what was the purpose of this? He crossed the room to sit in the leather chair facing the Russian's mahogany desk. The fabric of his uniform tightened, pressing glass shards further into his skin. The burn on his hand, which he had chosen to ignore during the fight with Prussia, now throbbed and stung — a reminder of what Ivan was capable of.

Ivan began to speak behind him, leaving Toris to stare helplessly forward as he listened.

"Litva… lately your actions have been worrying me. At first I was willing to excuse these… _incidents_ as simple mistakes, perhaps a brief lapse in your competence as my subordinate. I would not blame you, what with the threat of Amerika's nuclear power growing stronger each day, I can only imagine what it must be like for you."

Toris bit back a scoff. Ivan wasn’t the only one who spoke of America as though he were a trigger-happy sadist—even his brothers were wary of their adversary across the Atlantic. But Toris had lived with America for a year; he knew the boy's kind heart would never allow him to destroy the world.

His eyes drifted shut as he recalled that face—sky blue eyes, sandy-blonde bangs that were somehow messy but perfect at the same time… and that _smile_ …

Toris was snapped from his daydream when a heavy hand came to rest on his shoulder.

"However," Ivan continued, voice lowering to a growl. "I can no longer ignore the evidence before me." The hand tightened, and Ivan's coat shifted behind him. Hot breath sent the hairs on Toris’s neck standing on end as Ivan whispered,

"You are breaking our deal, are you not?"

In that moment, time froze.

_No_ _—_ _no, it's impossible, how could he know!?_

Toris struggled to regain his composure. Ivan was carefully watching his every reaction—one slip and his master's suspicions would only be confirmed.

"I'm sorry, sir, but I don't understand. Prussia just attacked me, why would you think—"

"He attacked you? Are you so sure about that, Litva?"

The question screamed in Toris's mind so loudly, he bit the inside of his cheek to keep from asking: _How does he know? How does he know!?_

"Yes," he whispered, this time unable to hide the tremor in his voice.

A shuddery breath shot chills down Toris's spine; it was all he could do to stop himself from bolting to the opposite side of the room.

"I see," Ivan rumbled.

The hand lifted from Toris's shoulder, hot breath retreating into the dark. Toris listened to Ivan's heavy footfalls as he slowly made his way around the desk, arms folded behind his back.

"You are probably wondering how it is that I have come to this conclusion. As you may recall, Winter has a way of… _sensing_ when tragedy is about to strike. There can be many sources—civil unrest, the death of a leader, war…" Ivan's eyes narrowed to glowing slits. "Or personal matters."

Toris gulped. Yes, he remembered that fun little ability of Winter's—unlike nations, the season didn't have a foot in the human world and was unbound by the confines of time. Although unable to pinpoint just which tragedy lay ahead, his warnings had always helped Ivan brace himself for approaching threats, both internal and external.

_So Winter came to warn Ivan of something_ _…_ _but what?_

"Imagine my surprise when he theorized the catalyst for this problem would be you."

_What?_

"At first I pegged this as paranoia. Winter has always hated my… relations with you, and so I thought this was just another one of his attempts to sabotage us. I assured him there was nothing to worry about, that the Litva _I_ knew would never hurt me or my family. Needless to say, he was not pleased with how I defended you."

Toris recalled the strangled shriek of pain from the night before. _That scream was_ _…_ _on my behalf?_

"Of course after that, I didn't have a choice—either I prove your allegiance to Winter, or he would be back to torment me again. I came to the kitchen early with the intention of putting on a show that would satisfy his lust for control. But I turn on the stove, and what do I find?"

Toris paled. _No_ _…_

"I find that one of my knives is missing." Ivan's eyes narrowed into violet slits. "It was always the little things that led to your carefully planned escapes, was it not?"

_No_ _…_ _no, no, no!_

Toris couldn't believe it—Winter had blamed the upcoming tragedy on _him?_ If the season had been whispering conspiracy theories in Ivan's ear, he had even less room to make mistakes than he originally thought! _That's why Ivan suddenly suspected me this morning_ _…_ _I should have known he was acting on orders!_

"At first I thought surely a little pain would put you in your place." Ivan's gaze drifted to Toris's bandaged hand. "I thought… perhaps you didn't realize what you had done, that you would rush to fix your mistake."

His gaze was harsh as he glared up at Toris. "But then I saw your expression in that dining room—full of hate and rebellion—and now I see that is only what you wanted me to believe."

Toris tried to ignore the panic rising in his chest. He raced to come up with an excuse, a reason for his master to be wrong. Yes, Ivan had Winter's word against him, but was he really basing this off a simple 'rebellious' expression? Toris swallowed, struggling to keep his voice even.

"I don't know what you saw in that dining room, but it had nothing to do with you. Prussia has taken so much from me—he tried to kill Feliks, he facilitated the mass murder of my people, and he did it all without giving me a chance to fight back. I thought seven years in the dungeon would have changed him, but even now he refuses to apologize for his actions, as if he can justify— _genocide."_

It wasn't a complete lie—Toris _was_ angry at Prussia for the atrocities of the war. But his grudge ran much deeper than that. It was Prussia who had ripped apart his marriage over a century ago, it was Prussia who had sold him and his brothers to the Soviet Union as a bargaining chip with that damn non-aggression pact.

Toris hated Prussia because the ex-Nazi was the very reason he was sitting here in front of his master. But he could never say those things to Ivan.

"To see him standing there, insulting my brothers as if he were still in the right… I'm sorry, sir, I don't know what came over me. I promise it will never happen again."

"So you did start the fight."

_Dammit!_ Toris hadn't meant to give that impression but there was no point in lying a second time. "He provoked it, sir."

"And you did it because you wanted revenge, da?"

Toris wasn't sure where Ivan was going with this. "…Yes," he said carefully.

Ivan's expression grew dark, fists clenching on the desk. "Then it had _everything_ to do with me. I'm curious to hear your theory, Litva: Why do you think I fought in that war?"

Toris blinked in surprise, it was rare of Ivan to speak of the war. Even after they had grown closer, he still wasn't sure of the horrors the Russian had suffered at the hands of the Nazis. He hated when Ivan made him play these guessing games; he was bound to get the answer wrong and then have to sit through one of Ivan's lectures. But he didn't have a choice.

"You fought because if you didn't, your country would have crumbled beneath your feet. You would have lost your land, your national identity… everything you had watched Europe be stripped of before you. You were fighting for your life."

Ivan's voice lowered to a growl. "Nyet, it was much more than that. Had I merely been fighting for myself, I could not have endured the horrors of that war."

Ivan's brows furrowed together, his eyes growing distant. "What Germany and Prussiya took away from me—it was not my land, not my resources, not even my people. They took _you._ Not just you, everyone—my sisters, your brothers—they ripped my family from my hands, all I had worked my entire life to build was destroyed overnight. Even worse, I was the one who had promised your protection, and yet it was I who had allowed you to be taken.

"It destroyed me, it fed a fire of hatred inside me like no other I have felt before. It was because I was determined to get my family back to a safe place where we could all live together, far away from those fascists and their 'master race' bullshit—that I was able to win that war. Some days it was all that kept me going."

Ivan's eyes rose to meet Toris's, almost glowing in the darkness. "That is why, when you claim that you still have the desire to take revenge on Prussiya, you insult me, and everything I fought for. _I_ defeated the Nazis, _I_ paid for your freedom with the blood of my people, and it was _I_ who took revenge on Prussiya by locking him up all of those years. If you were loyal to the Soviet Union as you claim, you would have understood that everything I did was on _your_ behalf, that there is no longer a need for revenge because I have already achieved this." Ivan's gaze bore into Toris, but he didn't seem angry. It was almost as though his master was willing him to understand, begging Toris to accept his version of the truth. "Is it clear to you now, Litva?"

Toris was unsure of how to interpret this new narrative. He wanted to believe Ivan was lying—that his motives surrounding the war were much darker—but looking into those violet eyes, he saw that his master was telling the truth. Toris had always known Ivan was obsessed with the idea of 'family'… but to prioritize this over his own land and people?

_We can't mean that_ _much to him_ _…_ _can we?_

Perhaps Ivan was blind to the destruction his crusade had caused for Toris and his brothers. Toris ground his teeth— _Or he just refuses to take responsibility for what he's done._ Regardless of whether he bought into Ivan's sob story, Toris had no choice but to agree.

"Yes, sir," he said quietly.

Ivan leaned forward over the desk, his hulking shadow stretching across the documents. "So now I must ask you: After everything I have done for you, why are you trying to run away?"

Toris felt something in him snap. Why did everyone seem to think he was planning an escape!? "I'm not running away."

"You will regret lying to me, Litva."

"I'm not lying!"

Ivan slammed his hands on the desk with so much force that it shook. An empty vodka bottle toppled with a clatter and papers drifted to the floor. His deep voice grew louder with each word,

"Then what would you have me believe? That you kiss me, you sleep with me, and right afterwards you are putting ideas into my head—Winter tells me you are dangerous, a knife goes missing from my kitchen, then you start a fight with Prussiya claiming to want 'revenge'—and that all of these are simply coincidences!? That I am supposed to look the other way while you plot behind my back, taking advantage of my trust— _is that what you want me to believe!?"_

Toris gripped the chair so tightly, his knuckles turned white. It was clear Ivan knew exactly what he had been up to, that the deal had been violated… but something wasn't right. Where was the punishment, the rage, the unchecked violence? Toris could see in Ivan's eyes that he was seconds away from breaking bone, but something seemed to be holding him back. At this point Toris would have better luck calling his master's bluff than he would trying to convince him of his innocence. He swallowed—after seven years of wishing he could talk back to his master, now was the time. He could _not_ afford to show weakness.

Toris's gaze flicked up to meet burning violets as he said, "I think the one lying here is you, Ivan."

The Russian's face fell into confusion. "What?"

"You say I broke the deal. If that's the case, then you have every right to punish me and my brothers. Blood should have stained this carpet minutes ago, and yet all you've done is stand here and lecture me. If you think I'm lying, if you think I'm betraying you, then what are you waiting for?"

Toris saw something change in Ivan's face… almost as if he had become _afraid._ He pressed on,

"That was the deal, wasn't it? My brothers' protection in exchange for your complete control over me. And if either of us violated the terms, neither of us would get what we wanted."

Ivan's hands balled into fists. "I never wanted complete control over you," he said, so soft that Toris was sure he had misheard.

"What?"

Ivan looked up through his bangs. His voice shook with emotion, "I never _wanted_ complete control over you. The deal was the only solution I could see at the time, it was meant to be temporary."

Toris didn't understand. _Temporary?_

"Yes, it started out as an obligation but I had been so sure… it would become obsolete, that I wouldn't— _need_ to control you…"

Toris was so confused; he had never seen his master act like this before. Not since… 

_No_ _…_ _no it's impossible_ _…_

Toris had known that Ivan 'loved' him—those hot words had been panted into his ear enough that sometimes he even heard them in his sleep. But this 'love' had been twisted into an obsession, a sense of ownership over Lithuanian territory. It had been this way for over a century, ever since Toris had first betrayed his master's trust. But the way Ivan was acting now—refusing to look Toris in the eye, voice thick with emotion, giving him what seemed like endless second chances…

_What is this? What's changed? And how_ _—_ _when?_

When Ivan spoke again, his voice was low and grainy. "In the glorious Soviet Union, among equals, equal and free, live forever and be happy, dear Soviet Lithuania. Lenin lit us the path to freedom, the great Russian people helped in the struggle. Stalin leads us to happiness and power, the friendship of our nations is as firm as steel." Violets narrowed, his breath heavy and shaking. "Those are the words of your anthem, are they not?"

Toris stared at his master wide-eyed. "I… sir…"

"Oh forgive me, your anthem is in _Lithuanian_."

Ivan strode around the desk. Before Toris could react, a gloved hand shot towards his throat and lifted him out of the chair, thick fingers crushing the oxygen from his lungs.

"Help me out, won't you Litva? Say the last line in your own damn language," Ivan hissed.

Toris clawed at his master's grip, trying uselessly to loosen the chokehold. He gasped the words in his own tongue, " _Taut_ _ų…_ _m_ _ū_ _s_ _—_ _hhh!_ _—_ _draugyst_ _ė…_ _kaip plien_ _—_ _gh!_ _—_ _plienas tvirta!_ "

"Now Litva," his master purred, "I want you to think about those words long and hard, I want you to think about what I have told you today. And most of all, I want you to imagine the dungeon floor glistening with your brothers' blood." His voice fell to a husky growl as he added, "You have until tomorrow morning to fix this. Do you understand?"

Toris gasped, pulling at the huge hand crushing his throat. " _Yes_ _…_ _sir_ _…_ _"_

He expected Ivan to drop him on the floor, but the seconds passed and he _wasn't letting go._ Toris's mouth opened and closed in a useless effort to get oxygen into his lungs, his heart thudded slower and slower in his ears. He clawed at the giant gloved fingers, sweat smearing on the leather. He tried to plea for help, but the words came out a voiceless gargle:

" _Ivan_ _…_ _please_ _…_ _"_

_Tha-thump. Tha-thump._

The dark shades of the office swirled into a nebula of color. Toris reached out and his hands found the cold skin of his master's face.

_Please_ _…_ _please don't kill me_ _…_

All at once, Toris slipped from Ivan's grip and his entire body rattled with the impact. He let out a strangled cry as the glass sank even further into his skin. Toris crouched on his hands and knees, gasping for air as he sucked precious oxygen back into his lungs. His vision swam with color, so much that he could only listen to Ivan's footfalls as he returned to his desk.

"Tell your brother that I must speak with him. Then you will go to the dining room, you will take off your shoes, and you will clean up the glass."

Toris pressed his forehead to the ground and coughed. "Yes—sir…"

"But only clean half, the rest is for Estonia and Prussiya."

"Yes…"

The only sound in the office was Toris's ragged breathing. He could feel Ivan's gaze, but Toris didn't dare look at his master now. He had played the game and been lucky to escape with his life; he couldn't afford another gamble.

"You may leave now."

There was something different about Ivan's voice. It wasn't a command, or a threat, or even a fake happy tone. It seemed… exhausted, and perhaps sad.

Toris rose on shaky legs, keeping his eyes fixed on the floor as he made his way to the entrance. His mind echoed with the last line of his anthem, a phrase that had become so automatic he had never considered its meaning:

_The friendship of our nations is as firm as steel._

_Friendship?_ he thought, the word familiar but so out of place when applied to the Russian. Feliks was his friend. America was his friend. Granted, he and the Pole had hurt each other and sometimes went decades without speaking, and he had barely known America for a year before they had been separated by distance and politics. But these things made no difference, because they had treated him well. They had supported him, helped him, saved him from the monster of his past and the shame of his life here.

But to think that _Ivan_ considered him a friend? The thought was so absurd, Toris would have laughed. Friends didn't beat each other, or use each other, or lie to each other. Friends didn't treat each other like objects to be owned—they protected each other expecting nothing in return. It was for this reason that real friends were hard to come by for nations—in the world of politics, even the most well-meaning favors had strings attached. But they did exist, and Toris knew without a doubt that Ivan was not one of them.

The emotion that now gripped him was not confusion or pity—it was fear. If Ivan truly saw him as a friend—or worse, a lover—then his master was discovering that Toris did not view their relationship this way at all. When confronted with his disobedience, Toris hadn't appealed to the fake relationship they had been playing out all these years. Instead, he brought up the deal because _that was their relationship._ Beneath the stolen kisses and the sex, Toris had known what bound them together was nothing more than an incentive-driven agreement.

But Ivan's reaction to this had been… Toris recalled the shocked expression on his master's face, and the dread twisting in his gut worsened.

_He acted like I had betrayed him. But I didn't_ _—_ _I thought he understood that everything I did was just to keep my brothers safe!_

The situation was now extremely dangerous. To Ivan, this was more than breaking a simple deal—if he saw more signs of Toris's disobedience, he would take it as a personal offense to their 'friendship,' or whatever Ivan had deceived himself into believing existed between them. Either that, or the damage had already been done and there was nothing Toris could do to regain his master's trust.

Most nations believed the personification of Russia to be the most dangerous when disobeyed. But Toris knew from experience, that nothing compared to the Russian's rage and destruction when he felt personally wronged.

He was so enveloped in his thoughts that it took him a few moments to realize someone was saying his name.

"Toris. _Toris!"_

He blinked, registering the black framed glasses and worried teal eyes.

"Are you alright?" Eduard asked, for what must have been the third time.

Toris struggled to find his voice; it came out a rasp. "I'm… fine."

Eduard scanned Toris up and down in a search for fresh injuries. The office was mostly soundproof, but he must have heard Ivan's angry shout through the door.

"You're bleeding; you should go find Raivis—"

"We can't continue with the plan."

Eduard blinked. "What?"

Toris met his brother with an apologetic expression. "Things have gotten… complicated."

Eduard seemed to be waiting for further explanation, but Toris found himself unable to provide one. The deal was a closely guarded secret between him and Ivan—the decision to sacrifice himself was his alone; he didn't want his brothers to feel responsible for that burden.

Eduard seemed careful with his next words. "I don't understand. You've already risked so much, why would—"

"Going through with this plan would mean losing Ivan's trust."

At first Eduard seemed surprised, then his face darkened. He lowered his voice so Ivan wouldn't hear through the door, "So Russia's trust is more important to you than Raivis's safety?"

"That's not what I said."

His brother didn't seem to hear his protest. "You knew the risks going into this, Toris, don't tell me you're backing down now just because Russia has threatened to end your relationship."

"We're _not_ in a relationship!"

"Then there should be nothing for you to lose! What else could he have possibly said to change your mind?"

"He's threatened to hurt you and Raivis!"

"That was a risk we knew we were taking, it changes nothing."

"Eduard, please—"

" _No,"_ his brother growled, in a rare stern tone. All traces of concern had vanished, replaced with a look of contempt. "If you value your— _whatever_ it is you have going with Russia more than helping Raivis, be my guest. But I'm not stopping until we know exactly what Russia is doing to him."

Toris huffed in frustration. "I told you, Ivan's not hurting him! But if we go through with this, if he sees just one more sign that something is going on, there will be no turning back!"

Eduard narrowed his eyes. "What was it you said yesterday—that you've been wrong about Russia before, that we can never be too cautious? Was that a lie, too?"

"Of course not, I just—things have _changed!"_

Toris could see in his brother's eyes that he was finished with this conversation. "Russia said you were first, I'm assuming he wants to speak with me next?"

"Yes, but—"

"Then excuse me."

Eduard tried to brush past Toris, and he caught him by the shoulder

"If we don't stop this, he could hurt you."

Eduard's gaze was cold as he said, "I know."

"Eduard, _please!"_

But his brother only shoved him off and opened the office door, then it shut with an echoing _thump_ that reverberated through the halls. Toris stood and stared at the carvings.

_What have I done?_

"Sucks getting caught up in your own lies, doesn't it?"

Toris jumped at the scratchy voice English, looking up to see Prussia smirking down from the pillar. He had completely forgotten he was there.

"Kind of like being forced to eat your own shit. How does it taste, Useless?"

Toris realized with dread that Prussia had understood every word of their argument. It was clear by now the ex-Nazi spoke fluent Russian.

He craned his neck to look up at his old rival—crimson streams of blood zigzagging down chained wrists, uniform hanging limply from a body that had been starved for seven years. And in a bizarre moment, Toris saw two people in Prussia. He saw Ivan, who had deceived himself into believing he had friends when his 'family' was only loyal to him out of fear—and he saw himself, a newly fallen superpower who had been foolish enough to think he had the strength to survive in this place alone.

"You can't keep hating," he whispered.

Prussia wrinkled his nose. "What?"

"You can't keep hurting people. If you do, you'll end up like—" Toris winced. _Like Ivan._ "You won't have any friends. You'll think you do, but one day you'll look around and realize they only fear you. Everyone will leave you, even the people you thought were closest to you."

Prussia scoffed. "You think I want _friends?_ Sorry to break it to you, Useless, but I'm not like your delusional boyfriend. I don't care if every fucking nation in the world hates me—I have Luddy, and that's all the 'friendship' I'll ever need."

"But Germany is not here," Toris said quietly. "I had Feliks, and I thought that meant something. But here, in this place—the outside world doesn't matter. My brothers and I didn't always consider ourselves to be family, but it was the only way we've been able to survive. You may think you can threaten us now, but when it really matters, you will regret mistreating us."

Prussia scoffed. "I've lasted seven years by myself; I don't need help from a trio of pansies."

"I lasted sixty-five," Toris whispered. _And they were the loneliest years of my life._

Prussia smirked. "Is that a challenge, Useless?"

The sharp remark was a reminder of just who Toris was dealing with. Deciding there was only one way to get the Prussian's attention, he took hold of his legs and pulled so the shackles dug deeper into his wrists.

"Aah, fuck, what the hell are you doing!?"

"I don't have to help you," Toris hissed. "Make no mistake, I want nothing more than for you to disappear behind that dungeon door. But it seems Ivan isn't going to kill you after all. He's going to _break_ you, Prussia, and he'll keep trying for as long as it takes. If you want our help—and believe me, you _will_ —I suggest you at least try to pretend that you're capable of caring about someone besides yourself."

"I told you," Prussia growled through gritted teeth. "I don't need your lousy help."

Toris looked up at those blood-red eyes, the shock white hair, lips curled back into a snarl of pain with blood staining his teeth. He wanted to believe that he was wrong—that seven years in that dungeon had changed Prussia, had finally done some damage on that infamous ego. But the insults, the sharp remarks, the blatant refusal to apologize… _Has he really stayed the same after all these years? Does he truly not feel regret for what he's done?_ Looking up at the nation who had taken almost everything from him, Toris's brows drew together in disgust. _Of course not. Prussia is Prussia, and he'll never change._

"My mistake," he growled. He let go of the chains and spun on his heel, marching down the hallway.

Prussia barked an insult after him, but Toris was too distracted to hear it. He felt weak, unable to process all that had happened. The deal, Ivan's strange reaction, and now the fact that Eduard wouldn't even believe him. Prussia's words replayed in his mind:

_Sucks getting caught up in your own lies, doesn't it?_

Toris entered the dining room, gaze wandering over the myriad of broken porcelain. He bent down to unlace his boots, pulling them off and stepping onto the pieces of dishware. The shards pressed into his skin, and a moment later a small pool of blood began to form at his feet.

Toris closed his eyes. He just wanted to fall backwards into the chaos—to lay here until the mosaic became white chinks on a backdrop of crimson.

* * *

HISTORY NOTES

**Partitions of Poland**

The Partitions of Poland took place from 1772-1795, splitting up the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth and completely wiping Poland off the map. Major figures in the partitions included Catherine II of Imperial Russia, who established a puppet king in Poland which made the weakening of the Polish Lithuanian government all the easier, and Frederick II of Prussia whose goal was to unite all of the scattered Prussian lands into one cohesive territory. With each partition, more land was split up between Prussia, Russia, and Austria, until all of modern-day Latvia, Lithuania, Belarus and most of Ukraine became part of the Russian Empire. Despite several attempted uprisings and revolutions, Poland and Lithuania would not again see recognized borders until over a century later, after WWI. (Source: POLIN Museum of the History of Polish Jews)

**Soviet/Russian view of WWII**

Everything Ivan said here regarding history and politics is a direct representation of how the Soviet Union, and even modern-day Russia, see the Second World War. Red Army soldiers are glorified as heroes who gave their lives for the freedom of the people. Victory Day is celebrated not only to honor them, but to celebrate the Soviet victory over fascism and the end of Europe's bloodiest war. However, Victory Day is not a national holiday in the Baltic States. Unlike in Russia, school and work does not let out. While most public events in Latvia are held in Latvian, the Victory Day picket signs and speakers are strictly in Russian. The ribbon of Saint George which is worn to commemorate the holiday is even viewed as nationalistic or offensive to some Latvians. Participants in Victory Day parades carry Russian Federation flags, or red flags with Soviet symbolism. There is a major dissonance between how modern-day Russians and ethnic Russians and the Baltic States view the outcome of the war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just posted some photos I took of the 2018 Victory Day parade in Daugavpils, Latvia, which you can view [HERE](https://chessna2.tumblr.com/post/629528426107322368/chapter-9-extra-materials). Thanks for reading, and comments are much loved!


	10. Vaina — Blame

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is the first to begin coverage of the Holocaust in detail. Please be aware that disturbing images and racist ideology will be portrayed in this chapter. I do not in any way condone these beliefs or behaviors, but wish to teach about them so the atrocities will never be repeated. Thank you.

Raivis had never felt more helpless than he did now.

He sat with his back to the wall, fingers picking at the worn leather on his boots. The only sound echoing in the hallway was the steady footfalls of Eduard's pacing—an old tick that meant the Estonian was either thinking, on the verge of panic, or both.

Raivis screwed his eyes shut, reminding himself it was too dangerous to run to his brothers' rescue.

_Toris and Eduard would kill me if I got caught up in all of this._

Raivis barely understood what 'this' was, and as time went by, he only became more confused. Toris had told him why Prussia was alive… but this did nothing to explain how his brothers had already known this, or why Russia had suddenly decided to release him, or… Raivis shuddered.

_Why Toris hates him so much._

After running to the sound of crashing dishes, Raivis wasn't sure what he had expected to find—but certainly not his brother punching an ex-Nazi across the jaw.

Just then a deep shout echoed from the office door. Raivis peered around the corner, fingers curled on the edge of the wall.

He had followed his brothers here for more than morbid curiosity. It was a system the Baltics had put into place ever since the beatings started: Whoever was safe had to drop everything and be ready on the sidelines to drag the victim to the nearest bathroom for first aid.

 _Damage control,_ Raivis scoffed. _All I can do around here is the stupid damage control!_

The minutes stretched on in agonizing silence. Raivis strained his ears for any sound—another shout, a scream of pain—but there was nothing. Eduard stopped pacing, instead leaning against the wall and chewing on a fingernail.

They waited.

At last the door creaked open. Raivis squinted as he tried to get a better look as Toris. Blood stained his uniform, but it was hard to tell if this was Russia's doing or from the fight. Even if the Lithuanian wasn't physically hurt, he seemed distressed. The two brothers spoke in hushed whispers—Eduard seemed to grow angry while Toris's fear turned to desperation. Raivis thought he heard his name, but he was too far away to make out the rest.

"Eduard, _please!"_

Raivis gasped as the Estonian shoved Toris away and strode into the office. Years of living in this mansion had taught Raivis that when it came to Russia, it was always best to listen to Toris's advice. But Eduard seemed to be doing the opposite, and that worried him.

"Sucks getting caught up in your own lies, doesn't it?"

Raivis's eyes darted to Prussia, and he instinctively shrunk back behind the corner. The last thing he wanted to see was another fight between his brother and the ex-Nazi.

Toris wasn't speaking in a whisper anymore; now he could hear their voices clearly.

"I've lasted seven years by myself; I don't need help from a trio of pansies."

Raivis bit his tongue. _Who does Prussia think he is? Insulting us like that_ _—_ _he has no idea what he's talking about!_

Nothing about the Prussian made sense. Toris had explained that Prussia was alive because he represented GDR. But from what Raivis had just witnessed, it was obvious Prussia was desperate to go back into the dungeon. This only confused him more—why would anyone want to live in that dreadful place?

Raivis tangled his fingers through his hair—there was so much he didn't understand, he was starting to feel overwhelmed.

_Wait, that's it! Eduard and Toris won't tell me anything, but what if I could get some answers out of Prussia? Then they'll realize they can trust me!_

Raivis’s eyes darted from his brother to Prussia. He had planned to help stitch up Toris's wounds, but looking at Prussia wince and roll his bloody wrists, Raivis realized this was his only chance. He had a feeling anyone who approached the ex-Nazi with unwanted questions would get a knife to their throat—or worse, in their gut. But now that he was chained and disarmed, Prussia would have no choice but to answer him.

Raivis's hands balled into fists. _I can do this,_ he thought. _He's chained, he can't hurt me. I can do this, I can do this, I can do this._

He glanced back to make sure Toris was gone. Heart hammering in his chest, Raivis wobbled to his feet and walked as steadily as he could towards the former Nazi.

 _Prussia speaks German, right? Come on, Livonia, you've got this_ _…_ _Warum, ja? Dangit, what's the word for dungeon!?_

Raivis arrived at the pillar much sooner than he wanted to, but there was no turning back now. He stood tall, hands clenched into fists as he summoned his strongest voice in German: "Why do you want back in the dungeon?"

Prussia whipped his head in Raivis's direction and squinted. "Who the hell…?"

It was the first time Raivis had gotten a good look at the Prussian, and the sight made him want to scamper back behind the corner. The former Nazi towered over him, uniform frayed and his hair a tangled mess. His deathly pale face twisted with injuries—both old ones from Russia and new ones from the fight. A thick stream of blood trickled down his nose to a busted lip. His eyes were a scarlet red, burning with irritation as he scowled down at the Latvian.

Raivis gulped, hoping to swallow the fear fluttering in his throat. _I can deal with this guy. He's chained. There's nothing to be afraid of. Everything will be fine_.

Raivis took a deep breath and drew himself up to his full height. "I-I'm—I'm Latvia."

Raivis mentally cursed; of course he would start stuttering now! How could he interrogate the nation who conquered Europe twice if he couldn't even get out a sentence!?

For a moment Prussia seemed confused, then his face lit up in recognition. "Ah, so you're this 'little brother' I've heard so much about. Shouldn't you be…" Blood-red eyes scanned Raivis up and down. "…taller?"

Raivis's throat tightened at the insult. His lack of height had plagued him for most of his life. He could always sense the disappointment in his new leaders when they were introduced to their country's personification. He heard the whispers behind his back, "Couldn't we have something more powerful?"

Raivis hated the way he looked—a scrawny teenager with expressive eyes, a tendency to cry and a terrible shaking habit. Countless times he had stood in front of the mirror and tried to imagine what he might look like as an adult. And yet he still remained trapped in this pathetic child's body, with this pathetic shaking problem and this pathetic phobia of everything. Raivis hated it with every fiber of his being, and Prussia had just wrenched a knife into that open wound.

He struggled to regain his composure. _I won't let him distract me._

"You didn't… answer my—question."

Prussia raised his eyebrows. "And a feisty one at that. Cute."

That comment infuriated Raivis, but before something rash could come out of his mouth Prussia said,

"What was this 'oh-so-important' question of yours again?"

"I asked why you want back in the—dungeon. Is it because you—you're afraid of becoming like us?"

Prussia snorted. "I'm not afraid of anything."

"I would be," Raivis said softly, his eyes falling to the ground.

"Yeah, that's because you've been raised by bitches one and two. It's no wonder you're even worse than they are—what are you trying to do now, impress them?"

Raivis’s face grew hot. "Don't call them that!"

Prussia smirked. "Thought so. Here's a tip, kid: If you live your life trying to impress your brothers, you'll end up fucking up even worse than they did. Just because they're older, doesn't mean they're right."

Raivis frowned; the last thing he had expected from Prussia was advice. Where had that come from? He decided to press for more answers.

"Toris told me you thought you were dead, that—that you didn't represent GDR. Why?"

Prussia scrunched his nose. "Snow Bastard always said you were a timid little thing; he never mentioned you're a nosy _brat."_

"You can speak Russian," Raivis pressed on, ignoring the insult. "I heard you in the dining room, it was fluent."

Prussia rolled his eyes. "You would too, if you got whipped every time you spoke anything else."

"But did Russia ever teach you?"

"No."

"Then you must have learned it because your people learned it! That's what happened to me, when I first moved to Petersburg it was really hard to speak Russian because my people didn't know it, but once everyone was forced to speak it then—"

"My people are _dead!"_ Prussia cut in, his yell causing Raivis to step back. A new fire had lit in his eyes, chest heaving as he glared down at the Latvian. "And any horseshit you or your brothers scrape together to prove otherwise is just an excuse to get more labor in this Gott-forsaken union!"

Raivis narrowed his eyes. "Is that why you hate us? Because you think we _want_ to be here? Is that reason enough for you to insult us, to hold a piece of glass to my brother's neck and threaten to _kill_ him?"

"There's a lot to your older brother that you don't know.”

"No, I _do_ know!"

Raivis's yell shook with emotion; all of the frustration he'd kept hidden from his brothers boiled to the surface.

"Everyone assumes that I don't, that I'm clueless and innocent, but I _do!_ I know what goes on between Toris and Russia, but I also know that Toris would never fall for the nation who helped _you_ to murder millions of innocent people!"

For the first time the anger in Prussia's eyes broke, his face falling into confusion.

"What?"

Looking up into those blood-red eyes, Raivis was reminded of how much this nation had taken away from him and his brothers.

"You say the Soviet Union is God-forsaken, that this is a demented family… but the Nazis were no better. I know because I was there, because just seven years ago I lived in _your_ house, Prussia. Nations did chores and were beaten if they disobeyed or spoke out against the regime—isn't that exactly the same?"

Prussia narrowed his eyes. "Which date were you taken to Berlin?"

"What does that have to do with—"

"I said WHICH DATE, Commie!"

Raivis jumped back, having to remind himself the Prussian was chained. "July fourth, nineteen forty-one."

Prussia huffed through his nose. "Nineteen forty-one," he muttered. A bitter smile crossed his face. "Nineteen fucking forty-one."

Anger stirred in Raivis again; did Prussia think this was funny?

"Yeah, the year you said you would give us our independence, but instead you shipped us off to Berlin to be Austria's housemaids so you could slaughter our people while we were gone." He looked up at the former Nazi as he pleaded, "Don't you feel sorry for _anything_ you've done?"

Prussia's smile vanished, leaving his face strangely blank. "What did you say your name was, again?"

Raivis sent Prussia his best glare. "My name is Latvia."

"Latvia…" Prussia muttered under his breath. His eyes rose to hold Raivis in a steady gaze. But this time it wasn't condescending or scornful. "You really should be taller." The tone of his voice had changed, too—no longer a biting insult, but an expression of wonder.

Raivis frowned, not expecting this sudden change. He opened his mouth to ask what the Prussian meant, but the office door creaked open.

Raivis let out an involuntary yelp and scampered behind the pillar. _Shit!_ He had forgotten to pay attention to the office! But the weary voice coming from the door was definitely not Russia's:

"Raivis? Is that you?"

Raivis let out an explosive breath. "Thank god!" he sighed, staggering out from behind the pillar. "I thought you were Russia!"

Eduard closed the door behind him, brows etched into a deep frown. Raivis scanned his brother for injuries, noting the scarf around his neck. But aside from this, the Estonian seemed unscathed.

"Are you okay?" Raivis asked.

Eduard didn't answer, still frowning. "You shouldn't be here."

With those words, Raivis felt himself grow a little smaller. He wanted to prove he hadn't come here for nothing, that he had successfully interrogated Prussia—but what new information had he learned? That Prussia was crazy and thought he was dead? That the year 1941 was somehow significant? None of it made sense, nor would it be helpful to Eduard.

Raivis's shoulders slumped as his eyes fell to the floor. "I know."

Eduard craned his neck to look up at Prussia. "Russia wants to see you."

Prussia snorted. "Russia can suck my—"

"It's not a _request,_ " Eduard interjected before Prussia could finish his sentence. He straightened and pushed up his glasses, stepping around Raivis to the back of the pillar. Raivis watched as Eduard reached up to insert a small silver key into the padlock that secured Prussia's chains.

"Remember our agreement," he said in a low voice.

Raivis gasped, "Wait, what are you—!"

_Click._

Raivis dashed to the far end of the hallway, his back flattened against the wall. The chains fell with a rattle. Prussia grunted as he hit the ground, stumbling forward but still managing to keep his balance.

Raivis held his breath, half expecting the ex-Nazi to strangle him for his earlier accusations. But Prussia only held out his bloody wrists and flexed his fingers, hissing through his teeth.

Eduard bent down to pick up the chains. "I'll be out in a few moments."

"Okay." Raivis searched for any sign of emotion in his brother's eyes, but all he saw was a dull cloud of gloom. Eduard was in big trouble… what had Russia done to him?

Raivis watched his brother lead Prussia into the office, chains clinking behind them. The door shut with a deep groan, but just before Prussia disappeared behind it he threw a glance over his shoulder to do something completely unexpected:

He winked.

Raivis opened his mouth to ask what Prussia meant, but the door had already creaked shut with an echoing _CLUNK._

* * *

There were several places Eduard preferred to avoid at all costs, and Russia's office was definitely in the top three.

The room was dark, heavy velvet curtains blocking the light from the grand windows that stretched to the high ceiling. Only a single white stripe of light shone through, casting long shadows across the floor.

Bookshelves containing everything from scrolls, ancient Russian literature, and newly purchased works lined the walls, some of the more precious artifacts concealed behind panels of glass. To the left was a large fireplace, the mantle lined with traditional folk carvings.

Eduard's boots sank into the Persian rug that blanketed the floor, rich brown and gold designs curling around each other in a mysterious dance. Russia's desk itself—the centerpiece of the massive room—was a dark mahogany emblazoned with intricate carvings. Russia spent an enormous amount of time in this room—it seemed his boss had him laboring relentlessly from dawn until dusk.

Eduard could tell Russia was working hard to organize the upcoming meeting. Contact papers and calendars were spread across the desk, no doubt exactly as Russia had left them before storming to the dining room. Eduard's stomach twisted into a knot.

_No wonder he was furious at being interrupted._

But something was off—an empty bottle of vodka lay on its side and he noticed scattered pages across the floor. Russia's posture was slumped, one hand around a half-empty bottle on his desk. When Eduard heard a slight rattling sound, he stopped in his tracks.

 _Russia's hands are_ _…_ _shaking?_

Eduard had never seen his master like this. Russia was always perfectly composed, either eerily happy or relishing in someone's pain. But the way he looked now—relaxed posture, unfocused eyes, the tremor in his hands—all clear signs of distress, but Eduard couldn't comprehend his master was capable of feeling such an emotion.

Was this an act? Or did it have something to do with Toris?

The moments stretched on with no word from Russia, and Eduard was starting to feel uncomfortable. He cleared his throat in what he hoped was an acceptable announcement of his presence.

Violet eyes snapped up, then with a jolt Russia reached over to click on the desk light. Eduard blinked in the sudden brightness. When his eyes had adjusted, it appeared as though a different nation sat before him—back straight, eerie smile, hands folded neatly on the desk. The vodka bottle seemed to have vanished.

"Ah, Estonia, how nice to see you," Russia chimed, as though Eduard had just now walked into the room and had not been standing there in silence for at least a minute. "Come, sit!"

Eduard stiffened—as unnerving as the previous Russia had been, this version was no more comforting.

He swallowed, squaring his shoulders and striding to the chair across from his master's desk. His skin crawled with their proximity; those violets seemed to stare into his soul and he had no way to defend himself—no excuse to do a forgotten chore on the other side of the house, no tea that was suddenly ready and in need of pouring. Eduard was trapped, and he grit his teeth to keep himself from obeying the voice that screamed for him to run and hide.

"Let us jog your memory," Russia began sweetly, as though he were talking to a child. "I gave you specific orders before I left Prussiya in the bathroom. Do you remember what they were, Estonia?"

"Don't let him escape," Eduard answered flatly.

"Da." Russia's eyes bore into Eduard, and he forced himself to stay still. "Do you know why I gave you this order?"

"Because I intervened in your business," Eduard replied, quoting Russia's words exactly.

"Nyet. I gave you the order to guard Prussiya because you are the only one I can trust. That Nazi could easily coax Latvia to let him out, and Lithuania has become… how shall I say… _unpredictable."_ Russia's brows drew into a frown. "But it seems he is not the only one, da?"

Eduard tensed. "What do you mean, sir."

"First you come running at the sound of Prussiya's screams, then you let him out of the bathroom. The Nazis ripped your country apart, Estonia, do not assume I have forgotten this. You owe him nothing, so why do it?"

Eduard wanted to ask the same thing—why, if Russia had spent years bragging about Prussia's death, would he suddenly release him from the dungeon and train him to be a subordinate? But as much as the question burned in his mind, Eduard knew his master would only pull out the NATO excuse again.

_That can't be it, there has to be another reason! But what?_

He was thankful when Russia spoke; it seemed he didn't expect Eduard to answer his question.

"I do not worry about you. You are smart and have obeyed me for the larger part of the century. But what I am really asking is a much simpler question." Russia leaned forward over the desk, violet eyes boring into his own. " _Should_ I worry about you, Estonia?"

Eduard understood that while Russia had made no threat, this was a warning not to cross him. He looked his master straight in the eye as he said,

"No, sir."

The silence was suffocating as Russia stared him down. At last his face broke into a smile. "Good! Because I have a new assignment for you."

A mixture of relief and dread passed through Eduard. He was glad Russia wasn't going to punish him, but judging by the cheerful tone of his master's voice, this new "assignment" would be anything but pleasant.

"Despite the fact that you have disobeyed a direct order, it seems you have an ability I lack: You can control Prussiya."

Eduard blinked. "Pardon?"

"I don't believe you understand the extent of your foolishness when you released him. A single overturned table is only a fraction of the damage that fascist would wreak upon this house had he the choice."

Russia placed his folded hands on the desk, eyebrows raised in intrigue. "But clearly this choice has been taken away from him. Not only did you manage to get Prussiya to take a shower, but I also noticed you treated his wounds. You have leverage over him, do you not?"

Eduard was shocked at how easily Russia had come to this conclusion. If his master could deduce this much, how much longer before he discovered the entire plan? The more they spoke, the more dangerous Eduard realized Russia had become. He had no choice but to tell the truth.

"I do."

"Ahh," Russia hummed, eyes glittering with a smile. "So there _is_ more between you than history would tell."

Eduard didn't want Russia getting any ideas. "It's just blackmail."

"Blackmail or not, it seems to be working quite well. And so as payment for your disobedience, you will supervise Prussiya for the weeks prior to the meeting."

Everything around Eduard froze. He could hear the splintering cracks of his world falling apart around him.

"…What?" He was so caught off guard by this proposition, he accidentally said it out loud.

Russia continued to smile sweetly. "At first I was unsure how to integrate Prussiya into Communist life—it seemed I would be forced to train him under lock and key. But it's obvious he listens to you; why not take advantage?"

Eduard scoffed, "Prussia doesn't listen to me, he almost slit my brother's throat!"

"That was before he understood my intentions to break him. Harming you or your brothers is hardly worth it to him, I will make sure of that."

Eduard's mind flooded with hundreds of other ways Prussia could torment him. The former Nazi had sworn to make his life a living hell and he didn't doubt his ability to do so—Prussia had barely been out of the dungeon for an hour and he was already wreaking havoc. An entire table of priceless dishes was destroyed, his brother almost got _killed_ … and now Russia was ordering Eduard to _supervise_ him? For several _weeks?!_

"Sir, please, this is a mistake. You saw what happened back there, I _can't_ control him—"

"Then I should lock him in the bathroom and put you on guard duty, da? The dungeon isn't an option, it would be giving that Nazi exactly what he wants. Prussiya must be integrated into Soviet life if he is to understand what it means to be a satellite state. I see no better subordinate for him to learn than from you."

The irony was sickening. Eduard had always prided himself in his ability to avoid getting into trouble with Russia—it was the reason he bore far fewer scars than his brothers. But this was hardly the reward he wanted! He raced to think of a way to get himself out of this situation.

"With all due respect, sir, surely you don't expect Prussia to sit still in my office while I do paperwork?"

Russia hummed in thought. "Your job is fairly easy, any one of my secretaries at the Kremlin could do it for you." His lips broke into a wide smile. "I will send your paperwork to them, da? In the meantime, you can join Latvia in doing house chores."

_No! No, no, no, NO!_

Eduard's chest heaved with the onset of panic. He wanted to ask if he could possibly switch off with Toris, but that wasn't an option after the two former empires had almost killed each other. And he didn't trust Prussia around Raivis for one second.

With horror, Eduard realized his own plan had been turned against him… and Russia had done it without even blinking. Eduard bit his tongue, mentally damning his master to hell.

"Prussiya will sleep in the guest room down the hallway from yours." Russia opened a drawer in his desk, pulling out a key ring. He fiddled with the jingling mess, glancing at the labels before removing a brass key. Eduard was surprised when Russia slid it across the desk over to him.

"You will be responsible for making sure his room is locked every night."

Eduard couldn't believe it. Russia was trusting him to lock up Prussia when he had just released him from the bathroom?

"Right," he said awkwardly, still staring at the key on the desk.

"You said I have no reason to worry about you, Estonia." Russia leaned forward, the hint of a smile resting on his face. "We shall see if you were telling the truth, da?"

The anger was replaced with dread as Eduard realized what Russia was doing. This was more than a simple "assignment" or payment for his disobedience. This was a test of Eduard's loyalty, and Russia would be paying close attention.

_How do you do it? How do you manage to crush every sign of resistance?_

Eduard's voice was grainy as he said, "Yes, sir."

The smile resting on Russia's face was that of satisfaction. "Your first chore with Prussiya will be to clean up the dining room. I want you to do this barefoot, da?"

Eduard shuddered. "Yes, sir."

"Good." Russia reached into his pocket, flicking out a small silver key between his thumb and forefinger. "Now unchain Prussiya and bring him to me."

Eduard tried to say another 'yes, sir' but he couldn't force his mouth to move. He took the key from his master's gloved fingers and swept the second one into a fist. He rose on shaky legs and strode to the door, spine crawling with the sensation of two cold eyes watching him go.

The last thing Eduard had expected was to find his little brother hiding behind a pillar. It annoyed him, but it wasn't surprising—of course Raivis would have heard the dishes crashing from across the house.

_Does that mean he saw the fight? And what about my argument with Toris?_

He decided to let it go; even if Raivis had been eavesdropping there was nothing he could do about it. Eduard brought Prussia to his master as instructed, tuning out the Prussian's complaints about how ugly the carpet was. He staggered back into the hall and shut the door with an echoing _THUNK._

Eduard slid to the floor, the carvings roughing across his back. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palm—all he wanted was some peace and quiet, was that too much to ask?

"Are you okay? Did Russia hurt you? What agreement were you talking about? Did—"

_That's right, I can't let myself be distracted._

Eduard closed his eyes, forcing himself to focus. If he was going to be stuck with Prussia for several weeks, he needed to figure out his past right away. The more information he had, the more he could use for blackmail… and he was going to need every bit of leverage he could get.

Eduard was pulled from his thoughts by Raivis's plea,

"What's wrong, why won't you answer me!?"

He slipped on his glasses to see that his little brother was genuinely upset.

 _Wait a minute_ _—_ _what if Raivis knows something?_

Eduard had been the last of his brothers to arrive at the Nazi Estate, but he was shipped to Berlin before Prussia or Germany ever made an appearance. He had spent those three years of Nazi occupation sharing a room with Raivis. Times had been rough—often the boy would wake up in the middle of the night and stagger to the bathroom, coughing up blood or sobbing about how he couldn't 'save them.' Eduard would follow, holding the Latvian's tear-stained face and asking again and again, 'Raivis, what's wrong, what's happening? Talk to me!'

But he was never met with words—just nights of endless crying, followed by mornings of haunting silence. When Eduard asked Toris what had instilled such secrecy in their usually talkative brother, even the Lithuanian admitted he didn't know.

" _You'll notice one thing about the nations here, Eduard_ _—_ _nobody talks about what we see, because we can't put it into words. Just care for him_ _—_ _that's all you can do. That's all any of us can do."_

Eduard grit his teeth. The last thing he wanted was to force Raivis to dig up painful memories. But he needed to know what happened to Prussia during the war, and this was his best chance.

"I'm fine," he said in a voice that suggested otherwise. "I just need to ask you some questions."

Raivis frowned, "I don't have any more beer."

Eduard wished this topic would be so light. "No, it's not that. I wanted to ask about your experience in the war."

"The war? Like— _the_ war?"

"Yes. Is that alright?"

Eduard watched a transformation overcome his brother's face. All light and humor seemed to vanish, eyes fading into a haunted look.

"Um. Yeah, I guess."

Eduard bit his tongue to keep from withdrawing the request. He was closer to Raivis than anyone—if the boy hadn't told him, it meant this may be the first time he would have to put his experience into words.

"Here, sit down."

Raivis lowered himself to the floor, hugging his knees up to his chest.

"I want you tell me what happened when the Nazis first arrived in Latvia, before you came to Berlin. Can you do that?"

Raivis swallowed thickly. Eduard waited, until at last his brother spoke in a cracked voice:

"I was in Riga. Everyone was really excited—the Germans were coming, we'd finally be free of the Soviet regime… kind of like a fresh chance at independence, you know? We—we really thought— _I_ thought—"

Raivis squeezed his eyes shut and shuddered, and for a moment Eduard was afraid his brother would start crying. But when he opened them, his gaze became dull with recollection.

"We called it 'liberation.' We helped them beat out the Soviets; it almost felt too easy. Everyone came out in the streets to greet the Nazi soldiers, we flew the Latvian flag and sang the national anthem.

After the initial celebration, a Nazi officer approached and invited me to this meeting. A secret meeting, he said, for top officials. I wasn't used to being included, you see, normally officers, especially the invading ones, well… they kind of just see me as a kid. So when this important looking guy, with his scary SS cap and arm band comes up to me and personally invited me to this meeting, I got really excited. I thought we would be discussing the terms of independence, and… how awesome was it, that _I_ would in that room, that I could tell the Nazis what my people needed?

So… I show up, and I'm kind of surprised to see several Latvians there. Everyone introduced themselves. The man who invited me was Franz Walter Stahlecker, commander of Einsatzgruppe A. Another man, a figure I had met at University events, was Viktors Arājs. He had a lot of connections with a student fraternity and had worked with the Latvian police for a while. And then I introduce myself as the nation representative of Latvia. Everyone shakes my hand, very formal and polite, a normal meeting, you know?

So then… Stahlecker starts talking. He starts talking about the scourge of Communism, how tens of thousands of innocent Latvian people were carted away by Stalin's brutal regime. How he and the Nazis felt the pain and injustice of our people, how they wanted to help rebuild our nation as truly for Latvians. And that was pretty amazing, coming from a German; it almost moved me to tears. Not many people realize what we've been through, so it meant a lot that he would care so much.

But… then this word comes up: Jew. And… he makes it very clear, that— _Jew_ means _Communist._ It's obvious, he says. And he goes on about, all the Jewish backgrounds and connections of Communists. And I'm looking around at everyone in the room, and they all seem to be hanging onto his words, believing everything that he's saying. 'The Jewish-Bolshevik…’—and I'd never heard this word before, but I understood what it meant—' _Untermensch,'_ he declares, pointing an angry finger at the air, 'Are a threat to the Latvian people!' And everyone claps."

Raivis closed his eyes and took a shaky breath.

"I… I was shocked, probably. I don't think I believed what I was hearing. That word, it was… animalizing _people._ Degrading them into something that would be easy to hate. But it got much worse.

This man… Stahlecker… he starts laying out this plan. To stir up civil unrest, to 'rally' the Latvian people to get rid of this pestilence, this disease called Judaism—or _Communism,_ the two seemed interchangeable… and he starts talking about raising groups of volunteers to help round up and eliminate this threat.

'Nowhere can be left uncleaned,' he says. He points to a map. 'Riga. Liepaja. Daugavpils. Not a single synagogue can be left standing.' And everyone _claps_ _…_ _"_ Raivis's voice cracked with the last word.

So this is where I speak up. 'Are you crazy!?' I shouted. 'The Jews are my people, too!' And Stahlecker laughs, says I've spent too much time with my head buried in Soviet newspapers. But I keep going, I keep trying to convince them that what they're doing is wrong.

And finally, Stahlecker gets this annoyed look on his face and grabs me by the collar. He wrenches me out into the hall and bends down in my face. 'Listen here, you ungrateful little brat,' he spits. 'I've been given liberty to do with you whatever I wish, and that is to have you assist in this operation. Now you can stand on the sidelines while we clean up your country, or you can have the honor of helping us do it. You want to be a soldier with a rank, men to lead, and an honorable purpose? Or do you want to be a scrappy, useless kid?'

That's all I was to them—just a kid they thought they could manipulate into murdering my own people. So I spat in his face, told him to go to hell, and ran out of the building. Nobody chased me, because what reason would they have to track down a 'useless kid?'

I was still paranoid, though, so I didn't go home. I had hidden civilian clothes at Riga Cathedral, ready in case Russia ever came back and I needed to escape. I changed out of my uniform and headed to the Great Choral Synagogue.

A ton of Lithuanian Jewish refugees had been pouring in, and we didn't have a lot of space so they were living at the synagogue. I had always been too busy to visit them, but now I realized how important this was.

The place was in chaos—the floor covered in bed mats, mothers with crying kids and people rushing around to give out food, blankets, and clothes. At first I was overwhelmed; I didn't know who to ask for help. But then someone tugged on my pants and I looked down to see this young woman holding a baby looking up at me with a haunted expression.

'Have you seen my husband?' she asked, in Yiddish so I understood. I knelt down beside her on the floor. 'I'm sorry, I just got here. What is his name?' 'Henryk,' she said. 'He was working in Kaunas but one day he didn't come home. We fled our village before I had a chance to look for him.' I asked her what she saw in Lithuania, what the Nazis were doing there—if Stahlecker's talk had been serious.

'It's horrible,' she said. 'Thousands were beaten in the streets overnight, left out to die. We could hear the screams from the village, and they say it was even our own Lithuanian brothers who did it.' I was horrified, did Toris know about his? I hadn't heard from him since the invasion, I didn't know what to do. But I knew things were about to get really bad.

The next morning… I woke up to screams and shattering glass. I raced out of my apartment, and there was all this shouting in Latvian. It—it was the volunteer units. They were dragging my Jewish neighbors down the stairs. One woman, her name was Anna, starts screaming my name: 'Raivis, help us, PLEASE!' I shouted at the volunteers to stop, but they ignored me.

When we got into the streets, I couldn't believe what I was seeing. Men, women, children, were screaming as these volunteers beat them with rubber sticks. Some of the women were forced to strip naked, others were being held by their hair. There was blood in the cobblestone…

I don't think I saw a single Nazi soldier. They were all Latvian, I didn't know what to _do!_

I realized it was pointless to try to tear the volunteers from their prey, so I decided to get the others to safety. I took off and ran around the block, to a nearby apartment complex. I raced up the stairs, banging on the doors of apartments where I knew Jews lived. 'Get out!' I screamed. 'Get out, NOW! We have to run!'

One door opened, and a man said, 'But we've been ordered to stay in our homes.' 'Screw the orders, do you want to die here!?' And so everyone rushed out, with nothing but the clothes on their backs because they didn't understand what was happening. I had five families with me. All I knew was that I _had_ to get them out of Riga, so I led them in the direction of the train station.

But then… we rounded the corner and ran right into a man wearing an SS uniform. I looked up, and I recognized him from the meeting—it was Arājs. 'Ah, Latvia!' he said in this cheerful voice. 'Looks like you've brought us some Communist rats, good work!'

'NO!' I screamed. 'This isn't right, what you're doing is wrong for Latvia!' 'What are you talking about?' he said, and a group of volunteers rushed up behind him. 'After everything the Soviets did, we're finally taking our country back. We're doing this for _you.'_

And before I could do anything, the volunteers had surrounded us and started beating the families I had been trying to save. I—I-I tried to stop them, I _tried_ to pull them away, I screamed and I begged and I told them what they were doing was _wrong_ … but they wouldn't listen. And finally they shoved me into the street, and I looked at my hands and they were covered in blood.

I ran away. I hate that I did, but I didn't know what else to do. And I just collapsed in this alleyway and I started crying. My whole body hurt. I felt it pumping through my veins—this mixture of hatred and fear. And then I started coughing, and I spat blood onto the pavement. And when I looked down at my reflection, I realized what I needed to do.

There was a reason the Nazis needed Latvians to do their dirty work, and there was a reason they had chosen Arājs. If they truly wanted to wipe out the Jews, that was about five percent of my population. That kind of—'operation' as Stahlecker had called it—would be impossible without local collaboration.

But there weren't any Latvian leaders left, they had all been deported by the Soviets! The only people left were the low-level police officers, who, watching their friends and families be packed onto trains headed for Siberia had truly learned to _hate._ And even fewer of those people had the skills or connections to lead. A man like Stahlecker was replaceable—Germany was probably filled to the brim with murderous, racist leaders like him. But _Ar_ _ā_ _js?_ If he went down, the whole operation would go down with him.

And so… that's when I decided to assassinate him.

I know it sounds crazy—I'd kill my own citizen, even after I'd watched so many Latvians die at the hands of the Soviets? But I saw the brutality, I understood the stakes. One man's life in exchange for tens of thousands. It was the only way.

I raced back to my apartment and took out a sniper rifle that I had hidden in the floorboards, back from my training days with the Latvian Riflemen. I had figured out the volunteers' pattern by then, so I was able to sneak around the back and position myself in a busted up apartment.

And sure enough, a few minutes later Arājs and his crew come marching around the corner. They're already busting into my apartment building, I can hear boot steps coming up the stairs. But Arājs wasn't close enough, so I sat with my eye squinted down the barrel and I waited. I hear banging in the hall, more screams, a family is dragged out into the street and Arājs strides to the main door. I held my breath, his head in my sights, and I pulled the trigger."

Raivis stared at his hands, his eyes distant.

"I don't know what would have happened if I had actually made that stupid shot. I don't even know why I missed. He was—he was _right there,_ I—I _had_ him, and—"

His voice cracked and Raivis tangled his hands in his hair.

"The gunshot gave away my position. Arājs looked right up at my window, we locked eyes. I tried a second shot, but he leapt out of the way and yelled for someone to get me. I cursed and darted back in the window, I bolted for the door but the volunteers were rushing up the stairs. They were too close to fire, so I rushed at them with the butt of my rifle. I hit one guy on the temple and heard the skull crunch, I ducked before the others could grab me and slashed their legs with a dagger.

But then a pistol shot rang out, and I fell hard on my side and blood spilled out onto the staircase. They were on me in a second—I saw someone throw my rifle over the banister, a boot crushed my wrists and they ripped the dagger from my hands. I blinked past the sweat to see a volunteer raise a pistol to my head.

But then a voice came from downstairs, 'You would shoot your own nation, soldier? Now that's hardly patriotic.' And here comes Arājs, his right ear a bloody mess as he looks at me with this expression of disgust. 'Clearly _Latvia_ here doesn't understand what's best for his own people. But I know someone who might be able to convince him of the truth.'

I couldn’t even make a comeback before they dragged me up the staircase and into a looted apartment. I kicked and screamed, but the bullet in my side was taking its toll and I started to lose consciousness. They gagged me and tied me down to a chair, so I couldn't even move my arms or legs.

I sat there, for maybe an hour, while my side bled out and more screams echo from outside. And then the volunteer—the _Latvian_ who was guarding me—salutes at the door and in walks Stahlecker. 'I can take it from here,' he says, and the guard leaves. He's not alone—two SS soldiers are with him. They're huge, and they're holding the same rubber sticks the volunteers had been using."

Raivis shuddered at the memory.

"What those men did to me—it was worse than Russia. They weren't just beating me because they were angry—they were trying to convince me to participate their damn 'self-cleansing' operation. You see, the volunteers might have handed me over to the SS, but it was clear they didn't want me hurt. Stahlecker and his goons could torture me now, but the Latvians wouldn't like it if they did that out on the field. They needed me to go willingly—as the nation rep, I was one of the few respected figures left, not to mention I can sense Jews. Of course they would go to such lengths to try and win me over—I was the perfect killing tool.

I don't know how long I was in that apartment, tied to that chair while they punched and kicked me. Stahlecker would grab my hair and jerk my head up, and I could barely make out his face through my swollen eyes, I couldn't even talk anymore because of internal bleeding. And he would hiss something about 'Jews' and 'Communism' and 'don't you want to do what's right for your people?'

But I wouldn't break. No matter what they did to me, no matter how much I begged for them to stop and even when I started crying because it hurt so bad… I refused to help them. The only satisfaction I got was knowing how much it must have pissed them off.

'FINE!' Stahlecker roared, and he kicked me in the side. He squatted in front of me, face dotted with flecks of my blood. 'You won't help us? Then your precious Jews will have _you_ to thank for our little show tomorrow night.' Then he barked at one of the guards to follow him out, and slammed the door shut.

When I rolled onto my back, moaning and sputtering blood, I looked out the window and saw the pink streaks of sunset.

I spent the next day stuck in that apartment with an SS guard. The streets were quiet. I thought about escaping, but it was impossible in my condition. So I just sat there, not knowing what to do, not knowing what would happen next. They didn't even feed me, or give me water.

Then evening came, and it was back in the chair for me. They literally _carried_ me down the stairs tied to that chair. They loaded me onto the back of a truck and drove me through the city. I saw it all—the broken glass, the bodies rotting in the streets from the day before. The stench was awful. But… then I realized where they were taking me. We were heading in the direction of the synagogue.

It was getting dark when we arrived. They unloaded me and set the chair on the lawn—a perfect view, Stahlecker announced happily. 'You know, the Lithuanian Jews are Communists, too,' he said. And that's when I smelled the smoke.

A few minutes later, the air crackled with snapping wood, and the night glowed orange with fire. I bucked at the chair, I screamed through my gag. But nothing I did would loosen the ropes. I saw dark figures running around at the base of the synagogue, throwing bricks into the windows and torches onto the fire.

'You see those men?' Stahlecker said, bending down to whisper in my ear. 'Those are the _true_ heroes of Latvia. So when you're locked up in Berlin feeling like a political trophy, just remember I gave you the chance to be so much more.'

And all I could do—even when the screams rose in the air because they had packed that synagogue with people—was to sit there, in that stupid chair and cry."

Raivis's eyes filled with tears.

"I heard this whirring sound over the crackle of the fire, and I looked over and… and they were _filming_ it. This—this Nazi soldier was just standing there with this recorder camera, like it was some kind of— _show._ And I just remember looking at him, and thinking, what else has he seen? What else had he done, to harden him so he could just stand there while his fellow human beings burned alive?

And I don't understand, and I don't think I will ever understand that kind of hate. But when the fire was so high and so hot that even my uniform started to singe—they untied me, threw me in the back of a VW, and drove me away.

And as I watched Riga shrink into the distance, I swore to myself that I would _never_ hate again."

* * *

HISTORY NOTES

**Franz Walter Stahlecker**

Stahlecker was SS commander of Einsatzgruppe A, which was assigned to Nazi-Occupied Baltic territories in 1941-42. He first joined the Nazi party in 1932 and served as head of Gestapo in several cities across the Third Reich. In June of 1941, Einsatzgruppe A followed closely behind Army Group North, establishing control immediately upon invasion. Its mission was to hunt down and murder groups deemed as "undesirable" by the Nazi agenda. As Stahlecker wrote, _"It was the duty of the Security Police to set in motion these self-cleansing movements, and to direct them into the correct channels in order to accomplish [them] as quickly as possible."_ He appointed local Nazi collaborators and organized pogroms in Kaunas and Riga. By the winter of 1941, Stahlecker reported that Einsatzgruppe A had murdered over 200,000 Jews. Stahlecker was killed in March of 1942 by Soviet partisans, and his position was quickly filled.

**Viktors Arājs**

Arājs was born in Latvia during the time of the Russian Empire, and studied law at the University of Latvia in Riga. He was a member of the elite student fraternity "Lettonia" and served as a low-ranking officer in the Latvian Police during the independence years. Following the Nazi invasion of Riga, Arājs was introduced to Stahlecker through an interpreter which happened to be an old classmate. During a conference on June 2, he was instructed to recruit a volunteer force which would carry out a pogrom against the Riga Jews. That same day, the Nazis ran an advertisement in the Latvian language newspaper: _"To all patriotic Latvians_ _…_ _students, officers, militiamen, and citizens, who are ready to actively take part in the cleansing of our country of undesirable elements should enroll themselves at the office of the Security Group at 19 Valdemara Street."_ These volunteers would later be called the Arājs Kommando. What began as spontaneous riots turned into systematic killings—the Arājs Kommando murdered approximately 26,000 people. After the war, Arājs worked undercover in British-Occupied Germany. In 1979 he was found guilty for crimes against humanity and sentenced to life imprisonment. He died in solitary confinement in 1988.

**Bolshevik-Jew Conspiracy**

Jewish Bolshevism is an antisemitic conspiracy which claims that the Jews were the originators of the Russian Revolution and that they held primary power among the Bolsheviks. It was formed during the Russian Civil War by White Russian propagandists, and these ideas gained an international following through antisemitic works. They influenced the likes of Hitler, and can be seen in Nazi propaganda posters in which "Jews" are portrayed as evil Communists. This had two effects—one, in which Russians/Slavs were viewed as "sub-human," and two, in which any Jew had an immediate association with Stalin's regime and the Communist's goal of "world revolution." This did not bode well for Jews specifically in Latvia and Lithuania, which had just experienced a year of brutal rule from the Communists.

The Nazis were aware of this negative connotation with Communism and used it to their full advantage when recruiting locals. From the Einsatzgruppe A report: _"On_ _…_ _consideration that the population of the Baltic countries had suffered severely under the rule of_ _Bolshevism and Jewry_ _while incorporated into the U.S.S.R., it was to be expected that after liberation they would themselves eliminate_ _those of the enemy_ _left behind after the retreat of the Red Army_ _…_ _It was no less important to establish for the future that it was the liberated population itself which took the most severe measures, on its own initiative, against the_ _Bolshevik and Jewish enemy_ _, without any German instruction being evident._ _”_

**Kaunas and Riga Pogroms**

"Pogrom" is a Russian word meaning "to wreak havoc, to demolish violently." Pogroms have historical origins within the Russian Empire, but they were also a common strategy in the early stages of Nazi persecution of Jews. The Kaunas Pogrom was started similarly to how I described the Riga pogrom here, although SS officials noted that it was easier to instigate pogroms in Lithuania, as opposed to Latvia, where "the entire national leadership… had been killed or deported by the Soviets.” Pogroms involved the beating and killing of local Jews to include women and children, the looting of their apartments, and burning of synagogues. The Kaunas pogrom is considered to be the worst of WWII, after which over 3,000 Jews were killed. In Riga, the victims totaled at 400. As part of the Riga pogrom, the Great Choral Synagogue was burned on July 4. The victims are reported to have been Lithuanian Jewish refugees, most of them women and children. The fire was set by Latvian collaborators and filmed by the Germans, later becoming part of a Wehrmacht newsreel.

**The Latvian Riflemen**

The first Latvian military units with Latvian commanders ever formed were the Latvian Riflemen, approved by Russian Tsar Nicholas II in 1915 during WWI. The Riflemen consisted of volunteers who conscripted to fight for the Russian Army against Imperial Germany. (Latvian sentiments were anti-German at the time, due to centuries of Baltic German influence) During the war, the German line reached Kurzeme, the southernmost part of Latvia, and so it was the Riflemen who were on the front lines keeping Imperial Germany from advancing further into Russia. However, the Riflemen became disenchanted with the Tsarist government and transferred their loyalty to the Bolsheviks in 1917. It's my headcanon that at this time, Raivis would have abandoned the front to help set up the provisional government which declared independence later that same year... but of course he kept the kick-ass battle skills he learned fighting with the Riflemen on the front.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The more I research the Holocaust, the more I learn that it is not nearly as cut-and-dry as some make it out to be. I would like to point out while there were Nazi collaborators in the Baltic States, there were also those who risked their lives to save the Jews. I hoped to portray this part of the population through Raivis's actions and beliefs – he is the nation representative, after all. I know this is not easy reading, and trust me, it is no easier to write. But I wouldn't be doing this if I didn't feel it was important to teach. So please, if you have any thoughts or comments about the story or the history, don't be afraid to drop them in the comments. Thank you so much for reading, and I promise the next chapter will be a bit lighter.


	11. 1952

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, Eduard references some information he knows from his time staying at the Nazi Estate. If you want to know as much about Gilbert's past as Eduard does, you should read my oneshot [My Dearest Elizaveta.](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12033119/1/My-Dearest-Elizaveta) If not, the information is still there but it may seem out of context. Thanks everyone so much for reading, and please enjoy Chapter 11!

Eduard stared at his brother in horrified shock. He had witnessed similar atrocities in his own country, but on a much smaller scale and certainly with more respect to his position as nation representative.

 _It must have something to do with Raivis's young appearance,_ he thought grimly. Too often invading forces underestimated his little brother's fiery will. There was a reason behind the Latvian's bluntness—if he didn't say things so directly, nobody would listen.

"That was your question, wasn't it?" Raivis asked dryly.

It took Eduard a few moments to find his voice again. "You… didn't see Prussia, during that time?"

"No," Raivis said, lowering his chin onto his knees. "But based on the stories I heard in Berlin, I don't think it would have made a difference."

Eduard tried piecing together the facts.

_Prussia was in Vilnius for the invasion, probably late June. According to Toris, he was loyal to the Nazis at the time. But if that was the case, why didn't he make an appearance in Riga and Tallinn?_

Eduard was struck with the image of the six-digit number scrawled onto the Prussian's forearm.

_What if he didn't make an appearance because he didn't have a choice? What if that's the window in which Prussia was sent to a concentration camp?_

It was true that Prussia had gone missing during the war. Rumors began to circulate that he had frozen to death on the Eastern Front, or been captured and even killed by the Red Army. Like most Third Reich territories living at the Nazi Estate, Eduard hadn't cared enough to pay much attention to the issue. The only nation who had seemed even slightly concerned with the Prussian's disappearance was Belarus—and Eduard had never respected that woman's priorities.

"Raivis… do you remember the Potsdam Conference?"

"You mean when the Allies left us hung out to dry?" The boy rolled his eyes. "Yeah, how could I forget."

"Do you remember what Prussia was wearing?"

Raivis gave Eduard an odd look. "Um… a Nazi uniform? What else would he be wearing?"

"That's right," Eduard muttered. It just didn't add up—why would Prussia wear a Nazi uniform and speak on behalf of Nazi Germany if he had been sent to a concentration camp? When the Nazis surrendered, any authority they had over Prussia ceased to exist; if he’d been forced to serve in the Einsatzgruppen there would be no reason to keep up the act.

Eduard glanced to the office door, realizing it wasn't long before Russia's 'conversation' with Prussia came to an end. Speculation could wait.

"Hey, Eduard… I know you're being all mysterious and stuff, but why does any of this matter? No offense, but I know you didn't ask me about the war to hear a sob story."

Eduard ignored the stab of Raivis's statement—he had never been one for dealing with emotions, and this was a trait Raivis had picked up on long ago.

_No wonder he never told me what happened during the war._

"Russia has ordered me to watch over Prussia for the next few weeks until the meeting. The more I understand about his past, the better."

Raivis's eyes widened. "But Prussia's crazy! He almost killed Toris!"

Eduard met his brother with a stern gaze. "That's why I need you to stay as far away from him as you can, do you understand? I don't want you getting hurt."

"But what if _you_ get hurt?"

"I'll be fine."

Eduard knew it was a lie. Even if Prussia didn't physically hurt him, he was sure the former Nazi would find more ways to torment him… but there was nothing Raivis could do to stop this.

"Estonia!"

The two brothers jumped at the sound of Russia's voice rumbling through the door.

"Come, we have matters to discuss!"

Eduard stood and helped Raivis to his feet. "Get out of here before Russia finds you. And Raivis—" His hand tightened around the boy's shoulder. "I _did_ want to hear your story. The risks you took, to try and protect your people—you were very brave. But there is a time and place for bold action, and with things the way they are, it's best to play it safe."

At first Raivis seemed surprised, but his face hardened into determination. "That goes for you, too, Eduard."

Eduard blinked. "Wh—"

"I saw you and Toris arguing earlier. I couldn't hear everything, but whatever it is that you're doing, it's not worth it to make Russia mad." Raivis's eyes shimmered with urgency. "Please—promise me you'll be careful."

"I'll be careful, I promise. Now hurry!"

Raivis nodded, and in a flurry of hasty footsteps and shallow breaths, the Latvian disappeared down the shadowed hall.

Silence settled as Eduard looked after his little brother. Raivis's tale was a grim reminder that while the boy tried to remain positive, he still carried the burden each nation was forced to bear.

 _There was no one to protect you from the Nazis. But things are different now_ _—_ _you have me. And I will never give up until I am sure that you are safe._

* * *

" _Ah!"_

Toris hissed as he pulled the last shard of glass from his face. His bare chest was marred with tiny cuts from the explosion of dishes, feet still throbbing from his torturous cleanup. He leaned across the bathroom sink, stretching the skin to watch blood seep through the opened cuts.

The haunted face staring back at Toris was one he had grown used to—thin cheekbones, bangs oily with sweat. His skin was pale from lack of sunlight, lips cracked from the dry winter air. Toris remembered Ivan calling him 'beautiful' and shuddered. He wasn't beautiful at all—he didn't even look healthy.

 _Could he really_ _…_ _love me?_

The thought seemed ridiculous—not only because it was Ivan, but because Toris couldn't imagine why someone would have feelings for him. He was nothing, a subordinate who bowed his head and followed orders. He had no power, no influence, not even his own military. Nations were drawn to power, they always had been. So how was it that the most powerful nation in the world could be in love with _him?_

Toris shook his head; that was the least of his worries. According to Ivan, he only had until tomorrow morning to set everything straight. He listed what that meant: _Calling off the plan, no agreements with Prussia_ _…_ _and I've still got to get the knife back._

A small groan escaped his throat. Raivis had been right about Eduard's stubbornness; convincing him to call off the plan would be no easy task. Perhaps Ivan would change his mind, or maybe Eduard would drop it given time. But until then…

_Prussia will be loose in this house, and Ivan could blame me for any hell he raises._

Toris swallowed, looking to his bandaged hand. Even if the ex-Nazi miraculously behaved himself, he was sure Eduard would leave evidence of the plan. Ivan would blame him, the deal would be off… and he had no doubt his master would follow through with his threat.

 _If only I wasn't the one under suspicion!_ The deal was between him and Ivan only—as long as Toris stayed out of trouble, his brothers were safe.

His head jerked up with a gasp, "That's it."

The key was to separate his actions from the others', and there was no better way to do this than to separate himself physically. If he wasn't in the mansion, he couldn't be blamed for anything.

"Grocery run," Toris whispered.

If Ivan had followed security protocol, he should have already put the MGB on high alert. Ivan knew Toris wouldn't dare try anything under the watchful eye of the secret police—he would much rather spend a week in the dungeon than a year at the Gulag.

 _If that's the case I might not be allowed to leave, even for groceries_ _…_ _but I have to try._

Toris bit his lip; he was nervous leaving his brothers here alone. But he could think of no other way to protect them, at least until he could convince Eduard to drop the plan. Toris took a shaky breath, squaring his shoulders in front of the mirror.

"Okay."

He threw on a fresh uniform and snapped up the buttons, leaving the bloodstained one draped over the bathtub. Toris hissed in pain as he limped to the foyer, picking up the phone and turning the rotary dial. His fingers curled around the earpiece as he listened to the ringtones. There was a _click_ and then a female voice crackled over the phone,

 _"_ _MGB_ _Security Office."_

"Yes, this is Toris Laurinaitis. I'd like to request an escort into Moscow."

He heard voices on the other end of the line, as though the girl was speaking urgently to her coworkers. Her next question was sharp with suspicion,

" _What is the purpose of this request?"_

"I need to buy groceries downtown."

_"Standby for confirmation."_

"Thank you."

Toris ran a nervous hand through his hair; so Ivan had called the MGB. He could imagine the frenzy in the office as word of his request spread to the higher-ups, then to Ivan's desk, then back to the higher-ups… Toris rubbed his temples; the bureaucracy in this country was damn impossible. He waited for what felt like ages before the phone crackled,

_"Lithuania?"_

Toris frowned at the familiar voice—he hadn't expected to hear _him_ on the line.

"Yes, Adrik, it's me."

" _You have been placed on high alert, are you aware of this?"_

"Yes."

" _Under normal circumstances you would be restricted from leaving the residence; however it seems Russia has granted you amnesty. This excursion will require a military escort, armed agents will be within range at all times."_

Toris felt himself relax. Even if the MGB was breathing down his neck, at least he was allowed to leave the house.

"Of course."

" _Be ready for departure in thirty minutes."_

"Thank you, Adrik."

_"Vsio."_

Toris let out a breath as he hung up the phone. Even life outside the mansion was a delicate balancing act, a game Ivan himself knew how to play. Sometimes Toris wondered if the Russian's harshness was just a desperate grab for control.

He stepped into the nearest bathroom and splashed warm water onto his face, rinsing off the last smears of blood. It was no secret Ivan abused his subordinates, but Toris tried to hide the damage from his escort as much as he could—he didn't want Adrik to worry.

Once he had cleaned up, Toris returned to the foyer and put on his overcoat and cap, bracing himself for the bitter cold. A few minutes later, he heard the rumble of a car engine pull into the driveway. The ignition shut off, a car door slammed shut and brisk footsteps neared the door. Three sharp raps echoed through the wood, and Toris pulled it open.

The man standing on the front porch was tall and built, his form even larger with the added layers of a thick uniform coat. Chestnut waves of hair were pressed beneath a cobalt blue military cap encircled with a red band. In the center glistened a red star, bronze sickle and hammer emblazoned into the center. The man's eyes were a golden hazel, bright and intelligent, and he regarded the nation in front of him with a sharp nod.

"Zdrastvuytie, Lithuania."

"Zdrastvuytie, Adrik."

The MGB agent stepped aside and motioned for Toris to follow him to the shiny black car waiting in the driveway. Toris wrapped a scarf around his neck, reaching down to pick up a leather briefcase as he stepped into the biting cold. He paused to glance back at the mansion.

"Stay safe," Toris whispered into the frigid air, before he crunched down the porch steps and the front door closed behind him with a _slam._

* * *

"I'm not taking orders from you."

Eduard didn't dare object to the words that Prussia growled, blood-red eyes glaring at him from beneath silver bangs.

The Prussian seemed so different than the cocky nation Eduard had led into Russia's office. His once bright eyes were now grim with a flicker of confusion, the flashy smile on his face had vanished into a begrudging acceptance of defeat. Eduard remembered how easily Russia had manipulated him, and it was obvious that his master had done the same to Prussia. He didn't recall hearing any screams of pain… what on earth did Russia say to control him? Did he have blackmail as well?

"I'm no happier about my position than you are. But in order to survive the next few weeks, I suggest we agree to be civil to each other." Eduard held out his hand.

Prussia curled a lip. "I'm done making deals with Communists. You had your chance to shake my hand and you made me sign that damn paper instead." He licked his lips, fingers twitching at his side. "You got a cigarette?"

Eduard frowned. "No."

Prussia rolled his eyes. "Of course you don't, fucking aristocrap…"

Eduard bit back a groan—they were off to a brilliant start. "We need to clean the dining room."

"I'll bet Russia has a cigarette, he used to smoke all the damn time."

"We'll spend the rest of the day doing other chores around the house."

"Or a beer. A beer would be real nice right about now."

" _Prussia!"_

"What!?"

Eduard glared at the Prussian. "Would you be so kind as to stop driveling about coping mechanisms? Russia ordered us to clean the dining room barefoot—the pain should take your mind off whatever he's threatened you with."

At first Prussia seemed surprised, then his eyes narrowed into slits. "Russia can't threaten me and neither can you," he growled, shoving Eduard aside and storming down the hall.

Eduard sighed—this was going to be a long two weeks.

As they neared the dining room, Eduard caught a whiff of the metallic scent of blood. He shuddered, bracing himself for what scene would await him.

Prussia stopped short in the doorway. "Oh shit."

Even though he knew it had been coming, Eduard's stomach clenched at the sight of bloody footprints smearing the wood floor. To his dismay, he realized Toris had swept the majority of the dishes, enduring more torture than was necessary.

Anger rose in Eduard’s chest. _This wasn't even his fault! Prussia was the one who kicked the table over!_

His thoughts were interrupted with the heavy _thunk_ of Prussia's discarded boots hitting the floor.

"You gonna help me or not?" Prussia grumbled, snatching up the broom and dustpan leaned against the wall.

Eduard swallowed the bile that had found its way into his throat, bending down to unlace his boots.

"Damn," Prussia huffed when Eduard stood to fetch a trashcan and second broom. "You look like you haven't set barefoot outside in your life."

"My job is to file paperwork, not harvest the wheat fields."

"No wonder you're as pale as death."

"You're one to talk."

Prussia smirked. "That's because I _am_ dead, Tea Boy."

"You're _not_ dead," Eduard pressed. "And I would appreciate it if you stopped calling me that."

Prussia's smirk only grew. "You gotta earn a better name if you want it. Why do you think I've stuck to Asstria after all these years?"

Eduard had no idea what Prussia meant by that, and frankly he didn't care. He stood precariously at the edge of the porcelain minefield, feet cold from the slick wood floor. By now Prussia had made his way into the center. He leaned on the broom with a hand on his hip, seeming to not notice the tiny blades cutting into his feet.

"Come on, Tea Boy, you can do it. It's really not that bad."

Eduard disliked the way Prussia whined as though convincing a cat to jump from a tree. He clenched his teeth before carefully placing his right foot into the shards. Cool glass punctured the soft underside of his sole. Eduard hissed as he shifted his weight onto it, bringing up the left.

Prussia chuckled. "For someone who lives with that psycho, you'd think you'd have better pain tolerance."

"I'm not an idiot, I stay out of his way," Eduard growled through clenched teeth. "Unlike someone _else_ I know."

"Ooh, I'm so wounded by your passive-aggressive jab, _someone_ get me a band-aid!"

It was obvious Prussia's spirits had been lifted by watching Eduard suffer. He shuddered—Prussia and Russia may hate each other, but the two had a lot in common.

Such a fire burned in Eduard's feet that his eyes heated up with tears; meanwhile Prussia carried on as if he couldn't feel the pain at all. And just when Eduard thought it couldn't get any worse, the masochist attempted to start a _conversation_ with him.

"So, what'd I miss?"

Eduard bit a lip, struggling to keep his voice even. "What?"

"If the war has taught me anything, it's that a lot of shit can go down in the blink of an eye. I've been in a box for seven years, surely _something_ interesting has happened."

"Interesting," Eduard scoffed. He was a bit preoccupied with trying to avoid the larger shards of glass; now was hardly the time for a lesson on current events! But he knew Prussia wouldn't take no for an answer.

"Let's just say you got out just in time— _mhm!_ —to watch the world burn."

Prussia's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "I didn't think you were the type of guy to exaggerate."

"I-I'm not exaggerating. We're in a nuclear arms race, it's only a matter of— _kurat!_ —who pushes the button first…"

Prussia frowned, "Nuclear?"

" _Yes,_ atomic bombs, like the ones America dropped on Japan— _ah!_ _Hoorapoeg_ …"

Prussia looked just as confused as before.

Then it struck Eduard: The Potsdam Conference was held a week before the bombing of Japan, and Prussia had been locked in the dungeon immediately afterwards. His heart sank as he realized he would have to explain the concept of an atomic bomb to the most power-hungry nation on the continent.

"So Mister Hero-Complex drops a couple hundred hot ones on Japan and he surrenders. Kid gets his revenge, the Allies win." Prussia shrugged. "I could have guessed that."

Eduard's eyes fell to the floor. "It wasn't a couple hundred. It was two."

"Two what—two _bombs?"_ Prussia laughed. "HA! So that rice-eating pipsqueak was a pansy after all! Guess after we surrendered, the poor guy lost his nerve."

"No." Eduard's gut twisted just thinking about it. "These are weapons of mass destruction—like nothing the world has ever seen. The first they dropped on Hiroshima, the second on Nagasaki. That's all it took. Two bombs, two cities completely wiped off the face of the earth."

Prussia looked at Eduard as if he were crazy. "You're shitting me."

Eduard wished it were a joke. "The heat was so intense, it burned shadows of bodies onto the pavement. They were incinerated—gone in the blink of an eye. Hundreds of thousands of people, just—gone. And that's not even counting the radiation poisoning."

Eduard had mixed feelings about nuclear weapons. On the one hand, they were a terrifying tool that should have never been created. But at the same time, he held a morbid fascination with the science behind it. In ‘46 Eduard had applied to the Radium Institute in Leningrad, only for his acceptance letter to be thrown into the fireplace. When he demanded to know Russia's reasoning, the response had been a vague, "Comrade Stalin would not allow it."

Eduard grew angry just thinking about it. He could be working with the world's most brilliant minds to push the boundaries of a cutting-edge science, when instead he was stuck in this damn house babysitting Prussia!

Prussia blinked rapidly. "Wait just a fucking minute. You said _America_ dropped this thing?"

Eduard nodded.

"And you said we're in an arms _race?_ Meaning he has more of them?"

"We have them, too. America and the Soviet Union are expanding their arsenals every day; it won't be long before we have enough— _ow_ _…_ nuclear weapons to destroy the world."

Prussia had stopped sweeping, his eyes wide as he stared at Eduard in disbelief. "Mein Gott, you're serious."

Eduard didn't know what to say. It was a lot to take in—a weapon of that caliber would have been impossible even for him to imagine seven years ago. As if living at Russia's house wasn't bad enough, there was a very real possibility that one day he and his brothers would awake to bomb sirens wailing in the streets of Moscow—the sky would turn red and never be blue again.

"Well shit."

Prussia let out a long sigh, leaning on his broom and staring into space. "Holy fucking _shit."_

Eduard said nothing, leaning over to sweep shards of glass into the pan. He watched the broken pieces slide off the plastic, landing in the trash with the clink of porcelain.

"So… who do you think will be first?"

Eduard frowned, "What do you mean."

"We're just sitting around waiting for someone to make the first move, right? So who do you think it will be?"

"You mean who will be the one to destroy the world?" Eduard swept more glass into his dustpan, banging it on the side of the trash. "I think that question answers itself, don't you?"

On the surface, it was a tough choice. Who would destroy the world—America or Russia? But Eduard knew Prussia would agree with him; there was no doubt in his mind who would be the first to strike.

Prussia let out a humorless laugh. "Do you know why that kid went to war with the British Empire?"

Eduard didn't answer. His knowledge of American history was scant; he had never considered it to be of any use to him. Of course, now that America was the biggest threat to the Soviet Union, he supposed a little background information would be helpful.

"Taxes," Prussia scoffed. "Can you believe that? Fucking _taxes!"_ He threw his broom on the ground with a clatter. "That's it. We're all fucked."

"Welcome to 1952," Eduard muttered.

Glass crunched beneath Prussia's feet as he paced in a bloody circle. "This is crazy! It feels like just yesterday I was teaching that kid how to use a bayonet, and now he's got the whole world under his star-spangled ass! Wait a minute…" He stopped, then whipped around with a grin on his face. "You _do_ know what this means, don't you?"

"That America will have destroyed humanity without knowing how far they've come?"

Despite all the politics, that's what bothered Eduard most about the arms race: America's young age. As unstable as Russia was, Eduard knew his master had worked much too hard far too long to set the world on fire. He finally had what he wanted—a family—and he would die before giving that up.

 _America_ , on the other hand, had been handed life on a golden platter. He had been doted on by England as a child and slaughtered an entire race to establish his influence. It had taken him less than two-hundred years to become a superpower—only the blink of an eye in a nation's lifetime. Why should he care if the world burned?

" _No,"_ Prussia grinned, puffing out his chest. "It means any kid I touch becomes a roving world power, that's what! Kesesese!"

Eduard winced. "I don't find this humorous."

"Aw, chin up, Tea Boy, it's not like you have anything to lose." Prussia bent down to pick up his broom.

Eduard ground his teeth but decided not to retaliate. As much as he hated it, Prussia did have a point. For a moment the dining room was silent save for the scrape of porcelain and hisses from Eduard as the glass cut deeper into his skin.

"Speaking of kids… how is Latvia with a gun?"

Eduard almost dropped his broom. "I-I'm sorry, _what?"_

"A _gunn,"_ Prussia drawled, dragging out the word as if he were talking to a child. He pointed his thumb and forefinger at Eduard, squinting with one eye and pulling an imaginary trigger. "Gunpowder. Bullets. Bang."

"I know what a gun is," Eduard growled.

"Or at least a sword. Bow and arrow, _something._ Please tell me the kid knows how to fight."

"Why should it matter to you?"

Prussia shrugged, turning back to his work. "He's got spunk. He doesn't bend over backwards to kiss everyone's ass like someone _else_ I know. A few years under my wing and everyone in this house would be taking orders from him, ja?"

Prussia grinned, seemingly pleased with himself. But Eduard saw where this was going, and he didn't like it.

"You stay the hell away from my little brother," he growled. The last thing Raivis needed was an ex-Nazi whispering crazy ideas in his ear.

"I'm just saying, the kid's got potential. A guy like him, all he needs to hear is that he can do anything. He can't get stronger with all this Soviet fear bullshit you've been feeding him."

"That 'Soviet fear bullshit' is what keeps us _alive,"_ Eduard hissed _._ "Raivis is reckless as it is—I swear to god, if you put any ideas into his head I will personally see to it that you board the next train for Siberia."

Prussia rolled his eyes. "Good, then I won't have to spend all day with a boring ballsack like _you."_

Eduard used every ounce of control not to whack this narcissist off of his feet with the broom. "Just do me a favor and shut up until we're finished cleaning up this mess."

"Well we're almost done so that won't be long," Prussia drawled.

"Anything is better than listening to you talk."

At first Prussia's eyes widened in surprise, then he sniggered. Eduard lowered the dustpan, shocked to see that the Prussian was actually _laughing._ Tears came to Prussia's eyes as he bent over and slapped his knees,

"HAHAHA! Mein—mein Gott, hahahaha!"

Eduard frowned. "I don't see what's so funny."

"You—haha—you sound _just_ like Asstria! _'Anything is better than listening to you talk'_ —Oh my GOD! HAHAHAHA!"

Eduard was thoroughly confused, but watching Prussia he realized this was the first time he had seen him in a good mood. So far the Prussian had either been threatening him, screaming from a flashback, or hurling tasteless insults. Guffawing laughter wasn't ideal, but at least it was better than the alternatives.

Finally, the last piece of glass was dumped into the trashcan. Eduard led Prussia to the nearest bathroom, limping and biting back curses from the pain.

He sat on the toilet seat and leaned over to turn on the bathwater. Eduard winced upon seeing a bloodstained uniform draped over the tub—Toris had been here.

He held a rag beneath the rushing tap until it was dripping wet, then handed it to Prussia. It was a dull brown, stained from years of soaking up fresh blood.

Prussia curled a lip at the disturbing color, then snatched it and lowered himself to the floor.

"Jesus, is there a first aid kit in every damn bathroom?"

"This one is closer to Russia's office," Eduard explained, shutting off the tap and reaching for a needle and thread. "Running water is helpful for getting rid of blood, and sometimes Toris is so bad we can't get him to the bedroom without making him worse."

Prussia snorted, pressing the rag to his foot. "What is this, a house or a hospital?"

"Neither. It's a prison." Eduard winced as he pressed a rag to his own feet.

"You know I was just thinking…"

Eduard's stomach sank. If Prussia's ideas held any resemblance to Russia's, this was going in a bad direction.

"You've got dirt on me but I've got nothing on you." Prussia looked up from his foot and grinned. "Tell me a story."

Eduard huffed through his nose, reaching to take a needle and thread from the countertop. "I'm not here to entertain you."

"Uh, correction: _Everyone_ is here to entertain me. Come on, just tell me a secret—something nobody knows. Of course—" Prussia's smile turned wicked. "Nobody gives two shits about your country so I'd be surprised if anyone even knew your name."

"That's more than you," Eduard muttered.

If Prussia heard it, he pretended not to. "Come _on!_ You're supposed to teach me how to be a satellite state, right? How am I supposed to integrate if I don't know your dirty secrets?"

Eduard almost laughed at the absurdity of it. He knew Prussia could care less about being a satellite state—he only wanted leverage. But at the same time, it was rare for other nations, especially ex-superpowers, to take any interest in Eduard or his brothers. He hovered the needle over his skin, thinking of what he could tell the Prussian without doing any harm.

"Alright, but just one."

Prussia's grin was a strange mixture of mad scientist and a kid waiting for his first present on Christmas. Eduard stifled another scoff—what he had in mind hardly counted as a 'dirty secret.'

"Russia didn't always beat us."

Prussia's face fell. "That's a shitty secret."

"It doesn't surprise you?"

"I dunno, I thought you were going to say you fucked Ukraine in Russia's bed once, or something."

Eduard’s face flushed red. "That is entirely inappropriate!"

"You know you'd do it if you had the chance. I mean, it's not every day you meet a girl with such huge—"

"As is _that,"_ Eduard cut in. "You wanted a secret, I've given it to you. I apologize if it doesn't coincide with your grotesque fantasies."

Prussia muttered darkly to himself, throwing the rag on the floor with a _slap_ and picking up his own needle and thread.

 _I can't believe he would suggest something so vulgar,_ Eduard fumed, the needle now shaking in his hand as he fought down a blush. _I would never disrespect Katyusha like that_ _—_ _not that it in_ itself _is a disrespect, it's just the way he said it! I'll have to keep an eye on him at the meeting._

"Alright Mister cock blocker—so why did Russia start beating you?"

Eduard was so caught off guard by the new nickname, he didn't hear the last part of Prussia's question.

"What?"

"You said he didn't always beat you, so he had to start at some point. Something must have set him off, ja?"

A heavy feeling settled over Eduard as the memories returned. Finally he said,

"Toris ran away."

For once Prussia remained silent. He bent over his foot, eyebrows scrunched in concentration as he wove the needle in and out.

Eduard second-guessed himself, making sure telling the Prussia about their past wasn't a mistake. But he could see no harm, and so he began sewing his own stitches as he continued,

"It was 1830; we had lived in Saint Petersburg for almost forty years. The transition had been rough for Toris—he was so accustomed to being a world power that he found it difficult to take orders. Even after he and Russia fell in love, he assured us he would win back our independence."

Eduard glanced to the discarded uniform hanging over the bathtub.

"But… the whole 'fight for independence' idea didn't appeal to Raivis and I back then. Latvians and Estonians worked as serfs under Baltic German landlords, we didn't even have our own national identity. The local aristocracy was in good standing with the Russian court; they even held high positions. So… what reason would we have to rebel?

"We didn't feel any particular allegiance to Toris, either. To us he was just another power who saw us as territorial gains. The Commonwealth, Sweden, the Russian Empire… what was the difference? As it turned out, we were right. Toris had lost everything with the partitions… and he wanted it back."

Eduard shuddered at the memory.

"One night Raivis and I awoke to our bedroom door being slammed open. 'Where is he?' Russia roared. We both looked at each other in confusion—we had no idea what he was talking about. He stormed to Toris's bed and threw it across the room. Raivis and I were shocked, but as the sheets and mattress slid to the floor we realized Toris wasn't there.

"'Where is he?' Russia shouted again, even louder. Raivis was holding onto me and crying; we had never seen him this angry before. 'We don't know!' I shouted again and again, but Russia wouldn't listen. He grabbed Raivis and pulled him out of my arms. Raivis begged Russia to let him go, saying he didn't know anything, please, Mister Lithuania never tells us anything… but Russia didn't listen."

Eduard clipped the thread and swallowed. "I went after him, but all I could do was pound the dungeon door with my fists and listen to Raivis's screams. Then everything went silent, and Russia came for me."

"Well damn," Prussia scoffed. "I should have known it was Useless's fault."

Sickness settled in Eduard's stomach. That scene—Russia bursting into the room and dragging a screaming, crying Raivis to the dungeon—had replayed in his mind over and over since the kitchen incident. Eduard kept reminding himself that all his master had done was force Raivis to drink vodka. But… there was no telling what would come next. He ground his teeth as he glared at the black stitches protruding from his foot.

_I will not allow that to happen again. No matter what happens to me, I'll protect him._

"Hey, Tea Boy."

Eduard looked up to see Prussia holding out a roll of fresh bandages. "You didn't finish your story."

Eduard blinked. "What—"

"You said Useless ran away, right? So what happened?"

Eduard took the bandages and began wrapping them around his foot.

"It was more than just an escape—the next day, war broke out in Poland. Apparently, he and Toris had been planning an uprising for months. Russia was furious; he blamed Raivis and I for our 'incompetence,' for not 'seeing the signs.' But—we barely knew Toris at the time, if anyone should have seen the signs it was _Russia;_ those two were always together!"

Eduard realized his voice had risen to a shout; even now the injustice of it infuriated him. He took a breath, forcing himself to calm down.

"Russia went off to war, so… he sent Raivis and I to the Winter Palace where we served the royal family. Every few months he returned to update the Tsar, and afterwards he'd put us on a carriage to his estate. We could see something different in his eyes—a violence, a bloodlust… like a beast had been set loose. Somehow, it was our fault that Toris ran away. Somehow, it was our fault the Lithuanians weren't loyal. But _we_ were, our people _were._ And yet… he'd drag us to the dungeon and whip us until our backs were raw. We were still expected to work the next day.

"It was almost a year before Russia brought Toris back to the Palace. Raivis and I stood in a line of bureaucrats while Toris kneeled in front of the Tsar and officially apologized, then swore his allegiance to the Russian Empire. Then we all rode back to the estate, and the whole way Russia didn't say a word. But the moment we walked through the front door—"

Eduard's voice hitched in his throat. His eyes flickered towards the bloody uniform.

"Raivis and I were so afraid, we ran and hid in the back of the mansion, but even from there we could hear his screams. We heard it all, and we didn't come to his aid. And I think… deep down, we thought he deserved it.

"After that, things were never the same. That estate in Petersburg became our living hell. And even while our people lived peacefully at home, serving the Tsarist government just as faithfully as they always had—we suffered. Because of Toris's selfishness, because of Russia's madness, Raivis and I became helpless victims of a terrible circumstance.

"And if that wasn't bad enough—after he cried, and apologized, and swore he would never put us in that position again—Toris ran away to start a second uprising thirty years later. And it happened all over again."

Silence pressed around them, as Prussia finished the last of his bandage and tossed it into the cabinet.

"It's all the same."

"What?"

"Useless, running away so that you and Latvia get whipped to ribbons. Russia, staking his big ugly flag on half of Europe. America, pushing the button and ending it all." A creepy grin lit up Prussia's face.

"We tear out each other’s throats and the one left standing on the pile of carcasses gets to rule the world. You can sugarcoat it as much as you like, but at the end of the day that's what us nations were born to do."

Eduard shuddered. Until now he had wondered how the Nazis could commit such crimes against humanity, but with a dark worldview like that, Prussia might even be able to justify genocide in the name of clawing his way to the top.

He recalled horror stories from the Nazi Estate of how the Prussian would drag subordinates into a room and draw blood, mad cackles echoing through the walls. Prussia may have been stripped of his power, but he was the same nation who had laughed as Europe burned.

Prussia rose to his feet and dusted off his pants. "I still need a smoke, you sure there aren't any stashed around here?"

Once again Eduard felt frustrated with his position. Russia had acted as though he could control Prussia, but this couldn't be further from the truth.

 _What happens when he decides to tear out_ my _throat?_

He was jolted from his thoughts by a pair of fingers snapping in front of his face.

"Hey, I asked you a question, Mister loyal-to-the-Tsar."

Eduard shook his head. Wallowing in hopelessness would get him nowhere—the only way to survive the upcoming weeks was to take each day one task at a time.

Eduard took a deep breath and pushed himself to his feet. "There's still blood in the bathroom by the dungeon. We need to clean it off and re-caulk the tile near the shower head."

Prussia strode to the door and held it open, lips flashing into a grin as he took a low bow.

"Ladies first, _Tea Boy."_

* * *

HISTORY NOTES

**MGB**

Abbreviated in Russian for “Ministry of State Security,” the MGB is an earlier version of the KGB which operated from 1946-1953. They conducted espionage and counterespionage, as well as maintained control of the entire Eastern Bloc. Their agents and informants were planted in collective farms, factories, local governments, as well as the upper levels of Soviet bureaucracy. Between 1945 and 1953 more than 750,000 Soviet citizens were arrested and punished by the MGB, many under fabricated charges of "suspicion of espionage.”

**Nuclear Arms Race**

The most well-known facet of the Cold War was the race for supremacy of nuclear power between the USA and the USSR. The possibility of an atomic bomb had already been researched and proposed by Soviet nuclear physicists starting in the 30's, but their program didn't receive sufficient government backing until the U.S. exploded the world's first two atomic bombs in Japan. Soviet scientists were under pressure to create an atomic weapon as quickly as possible, and they detonated their first atomic bomb in August of 1949. By the 50's, both America and the USSR had enough nuclear power to completely obliterate the opposing side. American and Soviet citizens alike feared the possibility of a nuclear strike, and drills were regularly held to prepare the public for the worst-case scenario. This, among other factors, helped to fuel an antagonism between the Soviet and American people that holds remnants in Russo-American relations today.

**American Revolution**

After the French and Indian War (1754-1763) during which Britain fought France for control of the North American continent, Great Britain found itself in war debt. To compensate for this, they passed heavy tax laws on the American Colonies. Many colonists felt these taxes were unjustified, and their demands for representation in British Parliament went ignored. The sudden crackdown of British rule stirred unrest, and these sentiments led to the start of the American Revolution in 1775. Many historical figures in the Revolution came from Europe, to include Baron von Steuben of Prussia. He played a key role in establishing sanitation standards for the Continental Army, as well as training American troops. In the earlier part of the war, American soldiers didn't know how to use bayonets in charges, and it was thanks to Steuben's training that they were able to win later battles. It is Hetalia canon that Gilbert traveled to America with Steuben and personally trained Alfred at Valley Forge. 

**November Uprising**

Also known as the Polish-Russian war, the November Uprising was an armed resistance of Polish and Lithuanian rebels against Imperial Russia that lasted from November of 1830 to October of 1831. The uprising began when a group of conspirators led by Piotr Wysocki attacked the Belweder Palace and captured the city arsenal. The following day, armed Polish civilians forced the Russian troops to withdraw north of Warsaw. Attempted negotiations with Russia quickly fell apart, and war broke out. Although some European powers sympathized with the Polish cause, the rebels received no foreign aid. They were soon outnumbered and overwhelmed by Russian forces, and retreated into Prussia where their support capitulated. The consequences of the uprising were severe—many Catholic monasteries were closed, as well as schools to include the University of Vilnius. Any remaining autonomy of occupied Poland was abolished, and Lithuanian infrastructure was Russified.

The former Commonwealth tried to break free of Imperial Russia a second time. The January Uprising lasted from January of 1863 to June of 1864, with more participation from Ukraine and Belarus. Efforts to defeat the Russian Empire again failed, this time with harsher consequences that led to the Russification of Latvia and Estonia.

**Estonia and Latvia in the Russian Empire**

The governorates of Courland, Livonia and Estonia were autonomous under the Russian Empire, run by local Baltic German parliaments called "landtag." Latvians and Estonians had few civil rights and worked as serfs under Baltic German landlords. Because the Russian court was ruled by a German dynasty, the Baltic Germans often held leading posts in the Russian imperial government. The Latvian and Estonian national awakenings didn't occur until the 1850's, and serfdom was abolished in 1861. Even then, they viewed the Russians as allies—the Baltic Germans were so resistant to Latvian and Estonian publications, that many of the first nationalist newspapers were established in Saint Petersburg. It wasn't until the 1880's that the Russians realized the danger of having so little Russian influence in the area, but their attempt at Russification fell short since very few teachers in Latvia and Estonia knew Russian themselves. By 1885, Baltic German infrastructure had largely been replaced by Russian governors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> "Vsio" means "all" or "everything" in Russian, and is a very Russian way of ending a phone conversation – just "that's all" and they hang up without any formalities. "Zdrastvuytie" is the most formal Russian greeting, used in professional situations or when speaking with a stranger. Eduard's Estonian is... just bad words.
> 
> Thanks for reading, and comments are much loved! (also I won't be replying to comments unless you guys have any questions I can answer. But know that I see them and really appreciate them!)


	12. Москва — Moscow

The leather seats of the car were cold against Toris's legs, even through the overcoat. His breath fogged up the window as the engine rumbled to life and the looming exterior of the mansion shrank into the snow.

"Where to?"

Toris's eyes darted away from the mansion to meet Adrik's stern gaze in the rearview.

It sounded like a friendly question, but it was the agent's job to know Toris's exact schedule. Even without the high alert, a host of MGB agents trailed him during these "outings." They were often disguised as civilians—one sitting on a bench reading a newspaper, another standing in the cheese line while Toris waited for milk. Each agent was armed and would arrest Toris on the spot if he were to diverge from his errand route. If he showed any sign of resistance, they wouldn't hesitate to shoot him.

"Downtown," Toris answered distractedly, scanning the snowy landscape of Russia's estate as it slid past the window.

"To get groceries," Adrik confirmed. Toris could sense the agent was suspicious, and with good reason—this was the first time since the war Toris had been placed on high alert. He decided being more specific would make a convincing argument.

"Yes. Bread, cheese, we're out of meat again… I should probably pick up some vodka for Ivan."

"Didn't you just get vodka three days ago?"

Toris met golden eyes in the rearview. "You've seen him drink."

Adrik let out a humorless chuckle. "And I'll never forget it—I'll bet money Mr. Russia could down three kegs of the stuff and still walk in a straight line."

Adrik Shkarov had been the Baltics' personal escort for five years. Toris remembered the first time he had answered the door to see the young MGB agent gaping at the enormity of Russia's mansion.

"Are you… Lithuania?" he had asked, eyes wide with the awe of someone who had just recently learned of the existence of nations.

"Yes, that would be me," Toris had answered with a smile.

Since then he and Adrik had come to know each other quite well—or at least as well as the MGB would allow. At first Adrik had seemed wary around Toris, not sure whether to treat him as a person or an animal. But as time went on and Toris started friendly conversations in the car, the young agent became bold enough to ask about Toris's life as a nation.

How are nations born, how do they die, how are they affected by their people? Toris patiently answered all of these questions, including those about his own history. In all his years of working with Russian officials, he had never met someone as inquisitive as Adrik. Despite pressure from the government to keep their relationship professional, Adrik and Toris considered themselves as friends.

"They flooded Gorky Park before that blizzard hit last night. The entire place is a giant ice-skating rink—you should go there, get some fresh air."

It seemed Toris had been successful in gaining the agent's trust. His eyes flickered across the window as ice-adorned trees sped by; if only Ivan could be so easily persuaded. "I don't have any ice skates."

"Ah, well. It's still beautiful. You don't leave the mansion very often, Lithuania, I would take advantage of the nice weather."

'Nice weather' for Russians meant 'not blistering with ice and snow,' but Toris understood. Adrik was right—he rarely left the mansion, and would be glad to take a break from all the chaos. Even so, he was worried about leaving his brothers for too long.

"Maybe," he said quietly.

Adrik could tell that Toris wasn't up for more conversation, and so they fell into a comfortable silence.

The expanse of white trees and snow began to dissolve into roads with a stream of cars, buses, and trams. As it funneled into the center of Moscow, the roads grew wider and more crowded, pedestrians hurrying along the streets. Trolleybuses hissed along electric cables, construction work echoed from Stalin's skyscraper projects.

Toris craned his neck as they passed one of the gargantuan buildings, its mock-gothic windows and spires scraping the clouds. He couldn't help but marvel at the sight—he remembered when it took decades to construct buildings like this, and now workers were throwing up entire apartment blocks like it was nothing.

"You like Stalin's architecture?" Adrik asked from the front seat.

"It's very… imposing," Toris said, catching a glimpse of the star glistening on the building's spire as it shrank behind the car.

Adrik chuckled. "That's the idea. Comrade Stalin is turning this country into a great world power—before the war, we had nothing like this."

Toris could see how such architecture would inspire the Russians, but he wondered if Adrik realized the skyscrapers were built on the backs of Gulag prisoners.

 _It's all just part of the lie,_ he thought grimly.

Traffic slowed as they entered downtown, where the streets were filled with rivers of bobbing ushankas and heavy winter coats. Adrik pulled the car to the side of the road. Toris had already spotted at least three MGB agents on this street, and there were sure to be more dressed as civilians.

"Have you decided yet?" Adrik asked.

"Decided what?"

"If you're going to Gorky Park or not. If you are, I'll pick you up at the entrance in three hours."

Toris hesitated; he felt uneasy being away from his brothers for so long.

"Just look at yourself, Lithuania, you owe yourself some time to relax. You've barely spoken the entire ride."

Adrik was right, Toris hadn't taken time for himself in months. It was unusual for the agent to be so persistent—perhaps he knew that if Toris was on high alert, something at the mansion must have gone wrong.

"Alright," he said, sending his escort a weak smile. "I'll go. Thank you very much, Adrik."

"Just doing my job," came the automatic response.

Toris's smile grew more genuine, and he opened the door to step out onto the street with the crunch of ice beneath his boots. He shut the car door with a slam, sharing a stiff nod with his escort as the black car rumbled off to be swallowed by the stream of traffic.

Toris's face stung with the cold as he filed into the stream of Muscovites. Over the years he had grown accustomed to the Soviet approach to shopping: it was a crucial mission to salvage products that might not be available the next day. Shopping was serious business in Moscow, even if it was the best stocked city in the Soviet Union.

Toris's first stop was a small bakery. He shouldered himself into the door, nostrils filling with the scent of rye, buckwheat, and peppernut. A queue had already formed behind the counter, lines of shoppers wrapping around the store like a furry caterpillar of hats and coats and bags. Toris internally moaned, wishing for the thousandth time that being a nation could get him a pass to the front of the line.

The bread prices were listed on the counter, behind which towered a rack of loaves. Toris was already familiar with the prices; no need to waste time in that line. Instead, he stepped behind a babushka and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Toris reminded himself this was not the worst queue he had been in by far. Once he had waited overnight, huddled with Muscovites by a fire. Toris remembered the orange glow of gaunt faces surrounding him—dull, tired, hungry. In their tiny circle they had talked of the war, of how things were surely getting better now that they'd proved themselves as loyal to the Soviet Union, no longer "enemies of the people."

Fifteen minutes later, Toris finally reached the counter. He put in his order of loaves, then was shuttled to the next line where he paid the cashier and received his receipt. Toris then had to wait in the final line to show it to the clerk, and at long last, the loaves of bread were handed over to him.

He still needed meat, cheese, milk, and vodka. Each of these were in a separate store, each store with multiple queues.

At times Toris found shopping to be unbearable, but he appreciated the opportunity to live among the Russians. Each time he stood in line, he understood that his "occupiers" were not so different from his own people—Soviet citizens, living their lives the only way they knew how, trying to keep their pantries full.

At long last Toris had all the groceries he needed. He headed to the bus stop which would take him to the park, standing in the huddle of passengers waiting for the trolleybus to arrive. Toris was rearranging his bags when he felt a tug on his coat.

"Hey, Mister."

It was a young boy, face freckled and cheeks bright red from the cold. He pointed to the ground with a mitten, "You dropped your cigarettes."

Toris looked down to see a cardboard box nestled in the snow, its edges starting to curl with the dampness.

"I didn't—"

The boy bent down to pick up the box, holding it out for Toris to take. "Here you go, Mister. Hopefully they're not too wet."

Toris paled; he couldn't take something from a stranger with the MGB watching!

"I'm sorry, they're not mine—"

The boy wrinkled his nose. "You don't want 'em? I would take them, but my mom says I'm not allowed to smoke."

_The longer I stand here and talk with him, the worse it looks!_

Toris took the box, sending him a weak smile. "Thank you."

The boy gave a resolute nod, seemingly proud of his good deed. "You're welcome, Mister." He spun on his boot and shuffled to the far side of the tram stop, head still down as if looking for more forgotten treasures in the snow.

_Shit! What do I do with it now?_

Toris didn't have to think too long before he spotted an MGB agent in uniform striding across the street.

_Here we go._

There was a collective shift among the Russians waiting for the trolleybus, as heads shot up and mothers pulled their children close. The agent stepped onto the curb with the snap of ice beneath boots.

"Dobri den', tovari—"

"Give me the box," the agent snapped, not even allowing Toris to finish his greeting.

He handed it over so fast, the cardboard may as well have been on fire.

The agent held it up, eyes narrowed as he turned it over in his gloved hands. Toris could feel the unease of the Muscovites behind him; he saw the boy lean over and a mother hissed to her daughter, "Don't stare!"

Toris shrank into his scarf; this was humiliating.

When the agent seemed convinced the outside was nothing out of the ordinary, he dumped the cigarettes onto his palm and opened the flaps, holding up the box to look inside. The agent then picked up and examined each of the cigarettes as he put them back into the box. By the time he was finished, the trolleybus had turned the corner and was nearing the stop.

"Nothing there," he announced, holding it flat on his palm as if he had just disarmed a land mine. Toris resisted the urge to snatch the box from the agent's hand; of course there was nothing there, it was a _cigarette box!_ As he slipped it into his coat pocket, he could almost hear a collective sigh of relief from the other Russians. Had the agent found reason to arrest Toris, they could have been accused of being accomplices.

Instead of returning to his post, the agent shoved his hands in his pockets and waited as the trolleybus hissed to a stop. Toris stepped in line with the other passengers as they funneled onto the bus. With a nod to the driver, Toris shoved his way through the maze of heavy winter coats, at last finding an empty seat by the window. The crowd parted much more quickly as the agent followed, taking the spot behind him.

Toris felt two eyes boring into the back of his head, not to mention the disapproving glances he received from other passengers. If the MGB was so hot on his tail, that could only mean one thing: Toris was under suspicion of disloyalty. And if he was disloyal, that made him an enemy of the people. Nobody wanted anything to do with him, and they certainly weren't happy about him bringing along this agent onto their bus.

Trying to distract himself, Toris watched the city of Moscow slide across the window. He caught sight of the onion domes of St. Basil's Cathedral, bright colors twisting around each other in a fantasy-like design. He saw the spires of the Kremlin, and behind them glimmered the golden domes of the Annunciation Cathedral.

Toris had lived in Moscow for nearly eight years now, and he knew the downtown like the back of his hand. But this vague familiarity was nothing like the way he knew his own heart—the streets of Vilnius pulsed like blood through his veins; Toris could _feel_ the city as it shifted and grew. Here, the sparkling skyline was just a pretty sight. But at home, it was a part of him.

And it wasn't just Russia's capital—it was the land, the people, the language. No matter how long he lived here, or how much Ivan preached the importance of "family," Toris knew they would never be _his._ In many ways, being separated from his country felt as though half of his senses had been shut off, or muted to a dull throb. Nations were never meant to be separated from their people—it was like cutting off a plant from its roots.

The trolleybus hissed to a stop near the entrance to Gorky Park. Toris rose with the majority of the passengers and descended the steps into a wintry wonderland of trees draped with icicles and glistening sidewalks. Here there was no bustle of frantic shoppers or rumble of car engines. The only sounds were the lowered voices of an old couple speaking to each other, the laughter of a little boy scaring a sparrow from its perch. Ice skaters glided along the paths, their motions graceful and calming.

The passengers hurried along the paths, eager to put distance between themselves and the agent tailing Toris. He huffed, breath forming a wispy cloud in front of his face.

"My escort will pick me up in half an hour, I told him I would be here."

The agent just glared at him from beneath the MGB cap.

Toris scowled; how was he supposed to relax with this guy breathing down his neck? Then he thought of something—he reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

The agent curled a lip, "If you think I'm going to smoke whatever garbage that kid picked off the street—"

"These are new, Belomorkanal. I just bought them today."

The agent let out a contented "Hmph," snatching up the box and taking a seat on the bench.

Toris fought down a smirk as he strode towards the park; if he were rich he could bribe his way to Vilnius.

 _Or I could just stock up on cigs,_ he mused, pulling the snow-soaked box from his pocket. The cardboard was wet, but not enough to ruin its contents. Toris took out a cigarette, balancing it between his teeth as he dug a lighter from his pocket. _I'd probably have to save up packs for years_ _…_ _bring some vodka with me. Steal Ivan's wallet. Then I'd be home free._

He could almost hear Feliks's scratchy taunt echo across the grey sky: _THAT'S your brilliant escape plan, Liet? You're like, going to have to do way better than that._

"Yeah, I know," Toris muttered in Polish.

The flame of the lighter was hot against his cupped hand as he lit the tip. He breathed in deep, then blew out a long stream of smoke that drifted with the winter breeze.

"It's a real circus here, Feliks. And it's all my fault… again."

_They are your family. You can't keep secrets from them forever._

Toris took in a sharp breath. He spun around, but nobody was following him. A snowflake drifted onto his nose, distant laughter echoed from the children skating on ice.

Toris shuddered and pulled his hat over his ears, striding forward so that his boots crunched in the snow. He couldn't think about her. Not now, not on top of everything…

_I just have to survive this. If I can win back Ivan's trust, everything will go back to normal._

He blew another stream of smoke, watching as it twisted and curled around itself in the frigid air.

* * *

"So let me get this straight—if I wanted to cross from East to West Germany, I could just take a train? There's no freaky Communist death line, or something."

Eduard groaned as he glanced down from his stepstool, the feather duster whirling fine powder to the floor. "I told you, all you need is a passport. That's why so many East Germans are leaving—you can't do it legally, but a lot of them go under the guise of vacation and never come back. They have to leave all of their possessions at home to make it believable."

He paused, then shot Prussia a stern look. "And if you're thinking of escaping, I would rule out that possibility. The border is crawling with MGB agents."

"That's Stalin's secret police, ja?"

"Yes."

A wicked grin flashed across Prussia's face. "A pack of heartless lowlives, no doubt. Those fuckers don't scare me."

Eduard shuddered and turned back to the bookshelf. _I'm sure they don't_ _…_ _seeing as you once commanded your own._

Prussia annoyed him. The two of them had been doing chores for almost three hours now, and he hadn't managed to get in a single question about the former Nazi's past.

Instead, _Prussia_ was the one asking all the questions. For hours he had interrogated Eduard about current events—what was Europe like after the war, where did Britain and France stand in the hierarchy, what were Japan's reparations? But most of his questions centered around Germany. Prussia must have asked if Eduard had seen his brother fifteen times by now, to which Eduard always replied that _no,_ he wasn't allowed to leave the Eastern Bloc. But he had accompanied Russia to Berlin for business meetings, which he immediately regretted saying after Prussia launched into questions so in-depth, Eduard didn't know the answers to most of them.

Prussia's sudden interest in the outside world surprised Eduard. It was such a dramatic change from his earlier attitude—the same nation who had screamed in Eduard's face that his people were dead now wanted to know everything about them, right down to the Deutsche Mark currency value.

But for someone catching up after the war, Eduard noticed that Prussia avoided any questions about former Nazi leaders. Not once did he ask if any of them were held accountable for their crimes against humanity, nor did he seem concerned with the fate of the Jews. This made Eduard uncomfortable, especially considering the tattoo and Prussia's earlier flashback.

_Is it possible that even after all he went through, he still doesn't understand the racism behind it?_

It just didn't add up—how could Prussia seem so concerned with the well-being of his "people" without asking about those who had suffered the most during the war?

Despite the tiresome questions, Eduard was fairly pleased with Prussia's behavior. By some miracle, he hadn't done anything to get Eduard or his brothers into trouble. Once again Eduard found himself wondering what on earth Russia could have said to win over the Prussian's cooperation.

Eduard's thoughts were interrupted by a sudden throb of pain in his feet. He winced, fist clenching around the duster handle.

"Aww, are Eddy's feet hurwting him again?" Prussia whined in a condescending tone Eduard did _not_ appreciate. But something else had caught his attention; he looked up to send the Prussian an odd look.

"Eddy?" Until now, he thought the former Nazi didn't know his name at all.

Prussia seemed to catch himself, face twisting into a scowl. "Don't get used to it, Tea Boy. You're pathetic, is what I was trying to say."

Eduard sighed, "Yes, I understood that part." He had likely been called more names in the past three hours than in the past three decades.

Just then a familiar pattern of thumping resounded through the floor. Eduard's breath caught in his throat and he dropped the feather duster.

 _No_ _…_

"What's the matter, Tea Boy, your fragile little fingers can't handle actual housework?"

"Be quiet."

Prussia put his hands on his hips, "I told you, I'm not taking orders from lowly scum like y—"

" _Shut up!"_ Eduard hissed with such ferocity that Prussia stopped midsentence. "Do you hear that?"

For once Prussia paused to listen.

The sound was unmistakable now—heavy footsteps.

Prussia rolled his eyes. "Snow Bastard is stomping around in his big-ass boots, I'm _sooo_ frightened."

"No, you don't understand." Eduard's hands trembled, sweat collecting on the bridge of his nose as his glasses slid down his face. "We need to leave, right now."

After over a century of living under Russia's rule, a key player in the Baltics' survival had become prediction. It was crucial they be able to discern Russia's mood, sometimes even before they spoke to him or met him in person. Multiple factors went into these predictions—his tone of voice, how much alcohol he had been drinking, the political situation… but the most important sign was his footsteps.

Over the years, Eduard and his brothers had learned to pick up three distinct walking patterns: Slow and casual, in which case Russia was relaxed (although no less dangerous,) sporadic and uncoordinated, which meant he had been drinking and should be avoided at all costs… and then there was quick and deliberate. This was the rarest of the three, but by far the deadliest. It meant that Russia was angry and coming to get someone. And as Eduard listened, not only were Russia's footsteps fast—they were getting closer.

Eduard climbed down from his step stool and grabbed Prussia by the wrist, " _Now!"_

Prussia twisted his arm free. "What the hell!? Get your Communist hands off me, you prat!"

"If you want to get us both killed, by all means keep screaming," Eduard growled. "I'm supposed to be teaching you about Communist life. This is the first rule of survival: _Run."_

Prussia looked about to argue, but he shut his mouth and gave a stiff nod. He threw his rag on the ground and they both sprinted out of the room.

By now the footsteps were unnervingly close—Russia was only a few rooms away and Eduard was sure he could hear them. _Why would he be coming for us? Did he find out about the plan?_ But it never mattered why Russia was after them—the results were always the same.

"Where are we going?" Prussia panted.

"I—I don't know…" Eduard's mind raced, where could they go? Russia knew the mansion's layout much better than he did. _If only Raivis was with us, he would know!_

"You mean you don't have a plan!? I thought you were supposed to be the smart one!"

"I'm _thinking!"_ Eduard hissed. Prussia's complaining certainly wasn't making things easier.

"Fuck this, I'm not playing tag with that brute. I'll hold him off while you go crawl in a cupboard, or something."

Eduard skidded to a stop when he realized Prussia had started running in the opposite direction.

"What are you doing!? You can't 'hold him off,' he'll rip you to pieces!"

"I know, it'll be fun!" Prussia called back, before disappearing behind a hallway corner.

Eduard stood in the hallway, sides heaving as he stared open-mouthed at the spot where Prussia had vanished.

_Fun? Fun!? What the hell is wrong with him?!_

His instincts screamed for him to do just as Prussia had suggested and keep running… but Prussia's well-being was vital to this plan. Eduard had bent over backwards to ensure his decoy stayed alive, and now the idiot was practically running to his death!

"Kurat," he cursed.

Each time he came to Prussia's rescue, Russia only grew more suspicious. Eduard shuddered at the memory of that silky voice: _Should I be worried about you, Estonia?_

"No, you shouldn't," he growled through clenched teeth. "Not as long as that idiot doesn't get me into trouble! Damn you, Prussia!" He should have expected this—after three hours of behaving himself, of course Prussia would find a way to cause havoc.

Eduard pushed up his glasses, then jogged in the direction of the one person he had sworn to avoid.

Prussia's greeting echoed down the hallway, _"Guten Tag,_ Ivan! Looks like you got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning. Didn't get enough beauty sleep?"

Eduard started; he still wasn't used to hearing Prussia speak Russian. _Don't taunt him, you'll only make things worse!_

Russia's deep voice rumbled through the walls, "Don't waste my time. Where is Estonia?"

Eduard staggered to a halt, pressing a hand to the wall for balance. _Russia is_ _…_ _looking for me?_

"You mean four-eyes? He pranced off like the pretty little doe he is. Surely you don't want to waste your energy beating up _that_ pansy, it would be too easy for you."

Eduard could hear the smirk in Russia's voice, "You've grown protective of him? I'm surprised; I had no idea you had the compassion of a subordinate. You play the part well, da?"

"I'm not compassionate, I'm bored," Prussia snarled. "I've had better conversations with your torture tools than with that dullard."

"You want to fight me for the sake of your own entertainment," Russia sighed. "Seven years in that dungeon hasn't changed you at all, da? Of course…" His voice fell to a dangerous growl, "You will soon learn that life in the Soviet Union is not so easy."

There was a loud crash, glass breaking and a heavy _THUMP._

Eduard took in a sharp gasp— _Not the pipe!_

"HA! You're gonna have to do better than that—I'm not blind anymore, remember?"

"I did that for effect, my Baltics get scared when I make more noise."

Prussia chuckled. "You really are a sick fuck."

"Are we so different?"

It shocked Eduard to hear Russia speak so plainly—normally he concealed his sadistic nature beneath sweet smiles and words of kindness. Then it hit him: Prussia used to be a superpower. There was no reason for Russia to keep up face when Prussia knew full well what it took to control subordinates—the pair even referred to him as if discussing a possession.

Eduard's hands clenched into fists. _Because_ _that's what I am to them_ _—_ _just another territory to claim as their own._

_CRASH!_

The walls echoed with Prussia's mad cackles, "KESESESESE! You missed!"

Eduard gritted his teeth. He could run away, but then his master would tear through the house looking for him. _And if he finds Raivis or Toris_ _…_

_CRASH!_

Eduard felt sick. Every fiber in his body screamed for him to run—but he couldn't. "Dammit," he cursed, squeezing his eyes shut. Eduard took a deep breath, then resumed his jog towards the ruckus of the fight.

The crashes grew more frequent, the impact of Russia's pipe sending shudders through the walls. Now Eduard could hear the stumbling footfalls of Russia's boots as he tried to land a blow.

He rounded the corner just in time to see Russia's pipe miss Prussia's head, smashing into the fireplace with so much force, the brick buckled and cracked under its weight. Eduard paled; he had witnessed Russia's rants before, but never did his master use as much power as he was using now. These blows were not meant to simply knock Prussia out or cause pain—if that swing had hit its mark, Prussia's face would have been crushed beyond recognition.

Despite this, Prussia was grinning like a maniac. His composure was relaxed even as Russia pulled his pipe from the dent it had smashed into the fireplace.

"Bust up your own house to scare the shit out of your subordinates and then make them clean up the mess. Sounds a bit cruel, don't you think?"

Russia's eyes glowed with a fire Eduard knew marked the end of this fight. "Spare me your hypocrisy."

The pipe swung so fast, Eduard barely saw it. There was a strangled cry and a sickening _crack_ Eduard recognized as breaking bone.

Prussia's eyes widened, mouth open in a silent scream as his back slammed into the wall. Russia pulled the pipe away and Prussia fell forward, clutching his broken ribs and moaning.

"You never cease to amaze me, Prussiya—accusing me of cruelty as if you yourself haven't committed genocide. Even superpowers have to feel regret at some point."

Prussia flattened himself on the floor just in time to miss another swing, this one busting through the plaster on the wall. Russia growled in frustration, pulling out the pipe as Prussia tried to scramble away on his back. He couldn't get away fast enough, and Russia's boot came down to crush Prussia's ribcage.

Prussia screamed.

His back arched and his body writhed as he desperately tried to get out from under Russia's weight. The scream was broken with gargles as blood burbled into his throat.

Eduard's mind swam with sick horror; this wasn't right. He had seen the scars from Russia's torture, but seeing it with his own eyes was an entirely different experience.

Russia brought up the pipe for another blow, lips twisted into a demented smile. "I don't expect a heartless beast like you to apologize—only to repay me with your service. Have you decided to obey me, Little One?"

To Eduard's amazement, Prussia spoke. "Fick—GYAA!—dich!"

Russia's face darkened. "I see. It is a shame, really—both for you and your brother."

Prussia's eyes widened, clawing at the ground with his hands. "Wait—gh—that wazn't—AHH!—my… I haven't decided —! Fuck—guh… let me go…"

"You either obey me or you do not, that was the agreement. And it seems to me that you have already made your decision." Russia rose the pipe above his head, and Eduard saw the same helpless terror in Prussia's eyes that he had witnessed in the bathroom.

" _Wait!"_

Russia whipped his head to look straight at Eduard. His master resembled a beast, thick bags under his eyes and hair slicked to his forehead with sweat. His irises held a red tint, glowing with fiery bloodlust.

"Wait," Eduard stammered. "You're looking for me. Don't—don't make him suffer on my behalf."

Prussia wheezed, blood trickling out of his mouth as his head turned to look at Eduard. "You… you fucking idiot…"

For a moment Russia seemed surprised, then his lips spread into a wide smile.

"Estonia! How kind of you to stop by. I would have called you earlier, but Prussiya here insisted upon getting in my _way."_ He ground his foot into Prussia's ribs and he let out an agonized scream, breaking into wet coughs.

Eduard winced at the immediate change in Russia's tone. He averted his gaze, afraid he might be sick if he were forced to watch this any longer.

"Please, sir—I don't know what you intend to do with him, but I can assure you that I will do everything in my power to help him become an obedient satellite state."

Russia's eyes glittered. "How very confident of you, Estonia. You should know that some monsters cannot be tamed. But still…" His gaze slid to the wheezing Prussian on the floor. "Some are just too stupid to know better." Russia ground his foot into Prussia again.

"AAH-HAH! Uhh… hhhh!"

There was a gurgling gasp as Russia lifted his boot off Prussia's chest. He took a giant stride towards Eduard. And another. All of the signs were there: sweet smile, red eyes, steel pipe glinting as it swung at his side.

 _Run, run, run!_ Eduard's brain screamed, but he knew it would only put his brothers in danger.

"Once again you have surprised me, Estonia. What do you hope to gain from saving that Nazi's life?" Russia smiled. "Although, you are wrong about one thing: I'm not here to punish you."

Eduard tensed. _What?_

Russia stopped a few steps in front of him, spinning the pipe until it smacked the palm of his gloved hand. "My Litva has been causing trouble lately, of this I'm sure you are aware. I've learned from experience not to allow his little games to last long before he slips through my fingers. It is a shame you must continue to suffer for your brother's mistakes, but I have found this to be the most effective way of gaining his cooperation."

Eduard paled. "What… what do you mean?"

Russia ran a finger down the pipe, as if caressing a pet. "Unfortunately Litva has gone to Moscow for the day so he will not be here to see the show." With a soft _whish,_ he flicked up the pipe so that it perfectly crossed the distance between them, forcing Eduard's chin up to look into that ice-cold gaze. "But this just means that I will have a surprise waiting for him when he gets back, da?"

Eduard was overcome by an eerie sense of déjà vu. Their master had used the same strategy to break Toris a century ago—only now, Eduard himself was guilty. In any other situation, he would have laughed at the irony. Russia planned to torture Eduard to make a point to Toris, when in fact the entire plan was his to begin with.

"You—you bastard!" Prussia coughed, rolling over to spit a glob of blood onto the floor. Crimson eyes glared up at Russia through sweaty bangs, "What about your deal?"

Russia's deep voice rumbled through the pipe on Eduard's neck, "I lied. Surely you of all people understand the benefits of lying about your intentions, Prussiya?"

Prussia tried to shoot back a retort, but he broke into a fit of coughs as more blood dripped from his mouth. His fists clenched and trembled, body heaving as he struggled to breathe.

Russia let out an irritated sigh. "First you break my finest dish set, now you're coughing blood all over my floor. I can't have you causing more trouble while I'm dealing with Estonia, can I?" The pipe left Eduard's neck as he took giant steps towards the Prussian.

"No, wait! Don't hurt—"

It was so fast. Eduard didn't even see the pipe come down—had barely registered the sickening _crunch_ of Prussia's skull before his body slumped to the floor and a red stain soaked into white hair. Russia turned to send Eduard a cheery smile. "All finished, da? I know I'm not the only one glad to have his filthy mouth shut."

What had Toris said after he left Russia's office? Something about no turning back? A slow horror came over Eduard. How had he so carelessly dismissed his brother's warnings, even accused Toris of betraying Raivis, when he had only been trying to protect him!

_Why didn't I call off the plan when I had the chance!?_

"I trust that I won't need to use force." Russia's silky voice snapped Eduard from his thoughts. He looked over to see his master swing the bloodied pipe over his shoulder. "You are my most obedient subordinate for a reason, da?"

"Is that why you chose me?" Eduard's voice was low and grainy. He couldn't even bring himself to look at his master. "Instead of Raivis."

"Nyet, I need Latvia to be healthy for other reasons. Come, we don't have much time."

Eduard clenched his fists. No matter what he and his brothers did—no matter how they tried to outrun or outsmart their master, Russia always seemed to be three steps ahead. He was pulling the strings even when Eduard could see no strings to be pulled, manipulating and lying to ensure they all remained under his complete control. Looking into those violet eyes, Eduard felt he was just a pawn on Russia's chessboard.

His voice was barely audible as he muttered, "Yes, sir."

Russia spun on his heel, coat furling behind him. Eduard winced at the crimson droplets dripping from the pipe. He swallowed the bile in the back of his throat and stepped in line behind his master.

"Eduard?"

 _No_ _—_ _not that voice!_

Eduard snapped up his head to see what he feared most: His little brother standing in the entryway.

"What happened? I heard crashes and I thought—" Raivis's question was broken with a cry as he saw Prussia's body on the floor.

_No, Raivis, get out of here!_

Russia paused to glance back over his shoulder. If Raivis's sudden appearance annoyed him, he didn't show it.

"Ah, Latvia! I am sorry you had to see that… Prussiya was starting to get out of control so I took care of him. There is nothing to worry about. You should return to your chores, da?"

Eduard knew that a cheerful 'da?' at the end of a suggestion wasn't a suggestion at all—it was a command that should be taken seriously, _especially_ when Russia's pipe was dripping with blood. But to his horror, Raivis ignored it.

"Eduard? Is everything alright?"

Eduard instantly understood the situation. Russia didn't want to hurt Raivis, and so to protect him he would have to play along. He could barely bring himself to look his brother in the eye as he said, "Everything's fine. Prussia tried to hurt me, and Russia—" his voice caught in his throat, feeling Russia's cold gaze watching him. "Russia saved me."

"Da, of course!" Russia beamed, throwing a heavy arm around Eduard's shoulders. Eduard nearly gagged; he hadn't noticed the strong scent of alcohol until now. Although lucid, Russia hadn't gone without a few drinks before getting violent.

"I am just looking out for my Estonia, da? He really is weak, it is a shame he cannot defend himself. Now run along, Latvia, there's no point in wasting your time with—"

"No."

_You idiot, what are you doing!?_

Russia's hand tightened around Eduard's shoulder with enough strength to leave a bruise. "I'm sorry… what was that, Latvia?"

"I—I-I don't believe you." Raivis's voice shook, his hands curled into fists. "Prussia didn't try to hurt Eduard. You—you knocked him out, and now you're going to hurt my brother." His eyes darkened with a determination Eduard had never seen before. "And I won't let you."

The room temperature dropped, the bone in Eduard's shoulder nearly cracked from Russia's grip.

"Poor Latvia. I had not intended to hurt you."

"Raivis, _run!"_

Eduard tried to break away from his master's grip, but Russia shoved him to the ground. He let out a cry as he hit the wooden floor, teeth slamming together and glasses flying off of his face.

" _Eduard!"_

The blurry figure of Raivis sprinted towards him. Russia swung back the pipe, violet eyes glowing in deadly focus.

"LOOK OUT!"

A quick silver blur flashed in Raivis’s direction, then a distinct _crack_ of metal on bone.

"RAIVIS!"

For a moment the boy seemed to hover in mid-air.

Violet eyes met Eduard, and a faint smile lifted his lips. Then his knees buckled and hit the floor with a hollow _slam._ Pale eyelids drifted shut, and the rest of his body followed—crumpled like a marionette with severed strings.

Eduard’s sides heaved, staring at his little brother's broken body and refusing to believe it, even as a pool of blood spread onto the wood paneling. It wasn't until heavy footsteps neared that Eduard realized his vision had clouded with tears.

"Get up."

Eduard trembled. Why? Why was it worth it to obey Russia's orders if this was his reward?

"N… no…"

A giant hand grabbed him by the collar and rammed him against the wall. Eduard grunted and coughed, the scent of alcohol filling his lungs.

"I don't have time for this _shit,_ " Russia hissed, at last seeming to have lost his composure. "Litva is coming home and I want your back in shreds when he gets here, do you understand? Don't make this more difficult than it needs to be."

"No," Eduard choked. He reached up with shaking hands to pry the Russian's grip off his collar. "Let me go! Let me help him—"

"He is beyond help."

"Dammit, Russia, he's my _brother!"_

Eduard's voice cracked with a hysteria he barely recognized. He couldn't see without his glasses; hot tears ran down his cheeks and soaked into his master's gloves.

"Then I pity both of you."

Russia dropped Eduard to the ground, then took hold of his wrist and jerked him forward. Eduard stumbled after his master, trying to twist away as he dug in his heels.

 _No_ _…_ _not again_ _…_ _it's happening all over again!_

Wasn't this the point of the plan—why he and Toris had risked so much to steal the key, to go into the dungeon and negotiate with Prussia? Every decision he had made was to protect Raivis, and now—!

As Russia hauled him out of the room, Eduard's chest rattled with a sob.

_I'm sorry, Raivis. I'm sorry I can't protect you._

* * *

HISTORY NOTES

**Moscow**

Now a political powerhouse, Moscow began as one of the many princedoms that made up what is now Russia. It didn't have a lot of influence until the Khan pumped money into it and the prince of Moscow led important battles to defeat the Mongols (1380) Moscow didn't become the official capital of Russia until 1480 when Russia was finally free of Tartar control. It would remain the seat of the tsardom for over two centuries, withstanding many invasions from foreign powers. It is my headcanon that originally Ivan represented a princedom close to Moscow, but later grew to take on the representation of the other princedoms. Thus, the city is at the core of his identity and he has always preferred living there to anywhere else in Russia, to include Saint Petersburg.

**Soviet Life**

My main source for Toris's scene was _The Russians_ by Hedrick Smith, an American's account of life in 70's Soviet Russia. All the details I discussed here were a daily part of Soviet life – long lines, a complicated process of buying things, bribes, the sights and architecture, and Belomorkanal cigarettes. Unfortunately I have still not been to Moscow, so this scene was not as accurate as I would have liked it to be... but I did live in a post-Soviet city and took the tram to school every day in the dead of winter, so hopefully it turned out ok :)

**Vilnius**

Vilnius rests at the heart of Lithuanian nationalism. The legend goes that Grand Duke Gediminas had a vision of an iron wolf standing upon a hill, and a pagan priest interpreted the dream to symbolize the strength and prosperity of the Lithuanian nation. Thus, Vilnius was founded in Lithuanian legend; it wasn't a port city built by foreigners like Riga and Tallinn.

**Berlin Wall?**

The Berlin Wall wasn't built until 1961. The reason behind the Wall was to prevent this mass emigration from the GDR to West Germany—by 1961, 3.5 million East Germans had emigrated West. Even after the Wall was built, East German citizens risked their lives to cross. It is estimated that 130 people died trying and 5,000 were able to make it to West Germany alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> An ushanka is a fur hat with earflaps that is often worn in the winter.  
> "Babushka" is the Russian word for "grandmother," but also doubles as the term for any older woman.  
> The Russian word for "comrade" is pronounced "tuh-VAH-reesh" and officers did refer to each other this way during Soviet times. These days, Russian speakers say "friend," "colleague" or "acquaintance" when addressing others in a formal setting.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading!


	13. Untersuchung — Investigation

_He heard voices. All talking quickly, all saying things in a language he spoke but with words he couldn't understand_ _…_

_"Fascinating, the specimen's internal organs seem to have the same structure as a human's and yet remain functional while critically damaged. Take note, Müller."_

_"Yes, doctor. Look, his eyelids!"_

_"Yes, he seems to be coming to; stand back everyone!"_

_"Are you sure it was a good idea not to use morphine?"_

_"Yes, I'm very interested in what kind of pain tolerance it has."_

_"But what if the straps don't hold?"_

_"AAEEEIIAAHHHH!"_

_Pain, like a fire he'd never felt before. It tore through his ribs, screamed in his head. Gilbert twisted and writhed, but his legs and wrists were bound to a cold metal surface. He gasped for air, squinting into the light that blinded him. He couldn't even sit up; something pinned him down by the forehead._

_"Can you hear me, Little Rabbit?"_

_A haunting moan twisted from the back of his throat, the cry of an animal stretched out for the slaughter. His tongue rolled against rough leather, soaking up the saliva and rendering speech impossible. Something else was wrong, horridly wrong, but Gilbert couldn't place it past the pain_ _…_

_"Auditory response intact. Now for surgical examination."_

_A figure blocked the light. Gilbert blinked past his tears to see a man wearing a lab coat and mask. His eyes widened when a pair of tweezers glinted in gloved hands._

No… no, please don't…

_His lips moved against the gag in protest, but the resulting sounds were nothing more than panicked babble._

_"I'm beginning the reconstruction of the large intestine."_

_That was it_ _—_ _the_ something _that wasn't right._

Mein Gott, they've opened me up. I'm open, on the table!

 _He pulled at the straps so hard they rattled, digging into his skin and reopening wounds. The shadow of a man's head and shoulders fell over him, the white-gloved hand with those glinting pair of tweezers sank lower and out of his vision. They were going_ inside _of him_ _—_ _touching things that weren't meant to be touched, moving things that weren't supposed to be moved. Gilbert could barely breathe; he began to cough and sputter in his panic._

Please… please don't touch me! I-I need the morphine, please! I can’t do this, I can't…

_"AAAEIIIIIIAAHHH!"_

Gilbert awoke with a gasp, choking on his own blood. It spattered to the ground below him, his vision swam with an unbearable pounding in his head.

_Fuck. Don't tell me I've been shot._

He groaned, then with much more effort than it should have taken, opened his eyes.

It took a few moments for his vision to clear, but what Gilbert saw was unmistakably a person's face. A head of curly hair was mashed to the ground, slick with blood where it had been bashed in. Judging by the soft facial features, Gilbert deduced this was a teenage boy. Pale eyelids were sealed shut, thick lashes resting on cheeks almost white with blood loss. The crimson staining the ground confirmed what Gilbert already suspected: This boy was dead.

_Shit, we've been ambushed!_

Gilbert closed his eyes, breathing as shallowly as possible. He could feel it now—the dry stickiness clinging to his uniform that meant he was lying in a pool of blood.

 _This is bad, this is bad, this is so_ so _bad._

He strained his ears for the crunch of grass beneath boots, for the thud of another head being bashed in or muttered jokes about the dead.

It was then Gilbert realized something was off. It was so… _quiet._ No wind, no rustle of grass, no distant rumble of vehicles or gunfire. The only sound was so soft, he almost missed it: a low mechanical hum.

_A heater?_

He risked opening his eyes again. The boy was still there, only this time Gilbert noticed his fair complexion—in fact, the kid didn't look Jewish at all. He wore some kind of red uniform, one Gilbert didn't recognize. Then he spotted a red star emblazoned with a bronze hammer and sickle pinned to the bloodstained jacket.

_He's too young to be a soldier; must have stolen it off a dead Russki._

But there was something else wrong, too. It was the lighting. The boy's skin was bright with an artificial glow, as if…

Listening to confirm no soldiers were poking around, Gilbert shifted his weight to get a better look at his surroundings. What he saw confirmed his suspicions: He was inside. And this was no bunker or villager's house—it was a lavishly furnished room.

 _What the_ _…_ _where the hell am I?_

Gilbert sat up, then immediately regretted it as pain seared through his ribs. He bent over and moaned, coughing up more blood.

 _This isn't a gunshot_ _…_ _my ribs are broken?_

He touched the top of his head, pulling a hand back to see bright red shimmering on his fingers. Then his eyes focused on the dark teal uniform he was wearing.

"Soviet?" Gilbert choked.

What the fuck was going on? He had worn Soviet uniforms as a disguise before, but he hadn't set foot in a house like this in years. As he looked around for some kind of clue, Gilbert noticed something on the far side of the room. He squinted until his vision cleared enough to identify it as a pair of glasses.

 _Wait. Glasses_ _…_ _big house_ _…_ _Am I back in Berlin? But why the Soviet uniforms? Ludwig would kill me if he caught me wearing_ _—_

Then he glanced back at the dead boy, and all of a sudden Gilbert realized this wasn't a memory at all.

"Holy shit."

Gilbert's mind scrambled to connect the dots: Soviet uniform. Big house. Dead kid. Glasses. Broken ribs.

"Holy _shit._ Holy shit!"

It all came back to him—Russia dragging him up the dungeon steps, that obnoxious subordinate blackmailing Gilbert into helping with his ridiculous plan, the fistfight in the dining room…

Gilbert grunted and squeezed his eyes shut as his entire world turned on its head. It made him dizzy, having to jump from one reality to the next. He should be used to it by now, but this was different—this was _real._ It was so backwards from the dark, painfully boring reality he had been living for the past seven years.

In a strange way, Gilbert had been thankful for the darkness—it was confirmation that he was awake and back in the real world. The moment he shut his eyes, he found himself whisked into the black hole of his own memories, forced to relive them over and over again.

But through the agony of having to watch his people suffer, Gilbert had one consolation: It was over. He was done, locked away, left to die in a hellhole far from politics and war and responsibility. No longer would he be free to wreak havoc on the continent, lighting cities on fire and turning a blind eye to the murder of millions. No longer would he disappoint the people he cared about. He couldn't, because he was dead, and he wasn't coming back.

Until now.

Gilbert didn't know what to make of this new reality—this real world with red blood and nuclear bombs and two Germanys. It all seemed absurd, as if the whole thing were a joke orchestrated by Russia to break him. But even if that Tea Boy was a kiss-ass, he didn't strike Gilbert as the lying type. Was he telling the truth? Did the truth even matter if Gilbert wasn't a nation anymore?

"Fuck," Gilbert moaned, pressing a hand to his head.

The existential crisis could wait—there were more pressing issues to worry about, like the fact that he was coughing up blood and barely able to breathe.

_What the hell happened?_

He remembered Eddy dragging him out of the room to run away from Russia…

_Oh._

Gilbert winced; no wonder his wounds were so severe.

 _But wait. That means the kid_ _—_

He looked over to the boy, then his eyes widened when he realized the pale, bleeding corpse wasn't dead at all.

" _Latvia?_ Shit, what happened to you?"

Gilbert coughed again, groaning as he dragged himself to the boy's side. He recognized the gash as a blunt hit. As his fingers ghosted over matted curls of hair, Gilbert's breath left him.

 _No_ _…_ _no, surely not even_ he _would do this_ _…_

But there was no other explanation. What else could have caused a gash like that? "No way," Gilbert breathed. He looked down to see his uniform sticky with blood. "No fucking way. You're just a kid!"

A familiar sense of disgust came over him. Gilbert had known Russia whipped his subordinates, but _this_ … to bash in the kid's head and leave him here to bleed out on the floor? What had he done to deserve that kind of punishment?

He reached over to place his fingers on Latvia's neck. The pulse was faint, but it was there.

Gilbert turned over Latvia's body to check for more injuries, shocked at how little he weighed. "Jesus, does he even feed you guys?" It was difficult to tell with a red uniform, but it seemed the only blow had been to Latvia's head.

_Great, makes things easier for me. Now what did Eddy say? Something about a first aid kit in every bathroom?_

Gilbert had no idea where the nearest bathroom was, but he assumed one wasn't far. It would be hell carrying that kid with his broken ribs, but at least he was light.

Gilbert hissed through his teeth as he stood, pressing a hand to his ribs. He limped over to the far side of the room and picked up the pair of glasses. In an absurd moment of curiosity, he slipped them over his nose as if doing so would give him a glimpse into Estonia's world. All he succeeded in doing was to blur the room into a wash of color.

Gilbert snorted; _The nerd is practically blind._

He swiped the glasses off his face, folding them and slipping them into his pant pocket. He limped back over to Latvia and knelt at the boy's side. Gilbert gritted his teeth, bracing himself as he slid his arms beneath the Latvian's frail body. Pain seared in his ribs like fire as he stood up, pulling the boy close to his chest.

"This—bathroom—uhh… better not—be—far…"

As Gilbert staggered through the halls, he couldn't help but feel the mansion was unusually quiet. It was then he remembered what Russia had said about Lithuania—apparently the slut had decided to go sightseeing in Moscow for the day.

_That bastard! He just left his brothers here while Russia beats Eddy in the dungeon and Latvia bleeds out on the floor?_

Then Gilbert remembered Estonia's story about Lithuania abandoning them years ago. He scoffed, "Figures."

Gilbert looked down at Latvia, a pale cheek and blood-caked curls squished to his chest. A new emotion came over him—a sense of determination he hadn't felt in years.

"Don't worry, kid," he grunted, swallowing the blood rising in his throat. "I'm not leaving you anywhere."

Thankfully it didn't take long for Gilbert to come to a bathroom door that had been left ajar. He shouldered it open and clicked his tongue. The sound bouncing off the walls gave Gilbert a perfect mental image of the bathroom, and he reached to the left to flick on the light switch. 

He carefully set Latvia down, propping him up against the bathtub. The boy's head rolled forward, shoulders slumped in a posture that almost made him appear drunk if it weren't for that huge gash in his skull.

"Poor kid," Gilbert muttered as he threw open the cabinet doors to search for bandages. "You're the only one who's actually got some balls and look what you have to show for it."

His train of thought was thrown off when he realized what he was looking at.

_First aid kit? Eddy, are you shitting me?_

The supplies stocked in the cabinet were anything but first aid. There were the typical bandages, rags, buckets, a suture kit, and disinfectant… but also bolts and clamps, knives, hypodermic needles, tweezers, countless bottles of pills and liquid medicine… Gilbert's eyes widened when he recognized the Russian word for "morphine."

He shifted his gaze to the slumped figure of Latvia against the bathtub. "Mein Gott," he breathed. Did the Baltics really live like this? So scared for their lives, so accustomed to beatings that _every bathroom_ was a mini hospital?

 _Then_ _…_ _whatever you did to piss Russia off, you must have known that blow was coming._

Gilbert's hands balled into fists. He had never seen anything like this—at least not in the nation world. Even at the Nazi Estate, subordinates were only interrogated if suspicious of anti-Nazi activity. But _this_ … this was random inevitability, an acceptance of the fact that there was no telling when or where Russia would snap.

"This is crazy," Gilbert scoffed as he scooped out bandages and rags, throwing them into a bucket. "This is a fucking madhouse, I can't be part of this!"

He turned on the faucet, soaking a rag under the tap.

" _You can choose to obey me and learn the ways of the Soviet Union to become your own satellite state, capable of making your own decisions and participating in the East German government. Or you can choose to rebel and refuse to follow orders, in which case I will break you so that not even your brother will be able to recognize you."_

Those were the two options Russia had given him: Obey and keep his right mind, or rebel and go mad, possibly ending up as brainwashed as that slutty Lithuanian. A part of Gilbert almost wanted Russia to break him for the sake of maintaining his pride—if he was a dead nation, what would it matter? But there was more…

" _Why do you think I tried to kill you? Why not break you, like everyone else? Death is too easy_ _—_ _you of all people know this."_

 _Gilbert answered without hesitation,_ " _We killed millions of your people. Lined them up and shot them in the back like cattle, starved them to death in POW camps. I saw the mass graves_ _—_ _piles and piles of dead Russians, too many to count." Gilbert smirked. "Of course, that may have to do with the fact that your pissant boss only gave each soldier three bullets."_

" _Civilians were not issued bullets, only rations. By the end of the siege in Leningrad, mothers were eating their own children." Russia leaned over the desk, lips curled into a bitter smile. "But you don't remember that, do you? Because you were not there."_ _His voice fell to a whisper as he said, "Your_ brother _was."_

_Gilbert tensed. In all his seven years of torture, Russia hadn't once mentioned Ludwig._

" _I never wanted you, Prussiya. By the end of the war you had disappeared_ _—_ _you were nothing but a shell of a nation without a people or government. You had seen the world at its worst and you had reached your end, there was nothing for you to lose. But_ Germany—"

_Russia's eyes lit with a glow that shot chills down Gilbert's spine. "He was young, impressionable. I saw the way he idolized you and I knew that I could make him look at me the same way. If he would go as far as to commit genocide to impress you, how much more useful could he be to the Soviet Union?"_

_Gilbert snarled through his teeth. "You son of a_ _—_ _"_

" _But alas, it was not to be. Your precious speech moved the others to vote that I take custody of you instead." A sly smile snaked across Russia's face._

 _"But then I realized: I had the one thing he cared about more than anything in the world_ _…_ _even over his own people. I knew there would be no greater satisfaction than for me to look Germany in the eyes and tell him that his brother was dead. I never wanted to punish you, Prussiya. You were nothing but the means to an end."_

Gilbert clenched his teeth as he wrung out the rag. All this time he had thought Russia was taking revenge on him, when really he wanted revenge on Ludwig! That meant being broken by Russia would only further his goal—if Ludwig saw that Gilbert had been brainwashed, it would destroy him even more than news of his death.

This, of course, assuming Russia _could_ brainwash him. But no matter how much Gilbert wanted to deny it, his chances of withstanding torture seemed slim.

" _You think you can withstand torture."_

" _I've lasted seven years, haven't I?"_

_That smile again. Gilbert really hated that smile._

_"Like I said, I was not trying to punish you. If you are going to directly disobey me, that is an entirely different game_ _…_ _one I'm sure my Baltics could enlighten you on. You knew Lithuania before I broke him. He was just as stubborn as you, one of the most powerful nations in all of Europe." Russia's smile spread into a grin of satisfaction as he whispered, "Now he bends over backwards to do whatever I want."_

Or forwards, _Gilbert thought. He smirked. "What's hilarious is that you're comparing_ me _to Lithuania."_

" _At our core we are all the same, Prussiya_ _—_ _only defined by who has more power. You are no different than Toris the year he first set foot in this house_ _—_ _stripped of your titles, possessions, family, with only the fleeting hope that someday you will 'grow strong again.'"_

_Russia's smile became smug. "Lithuania spent over sixty years fighting back, and look at him now. If he had cooperated, he and his brothers would have suffered much less. It is your decision whether you will learn from his mistakes."_

At the time Gilbert hadn't understood the weight of that decision, but after hearing Estonia's story, he had a better grasp of the stakes.

It was true there was a high price to pay for disobedience… but this was Europe, after all. Power and borders changed with the seasons and it was only a matter of time before Russia's communist game of house came to an end. If Lithuania could last that long, Gilbert had no doubt he could easily match that.

Even so, if he really _did_ represent GDR then undergoing torture for the sake of his own pride would be neglecting his duties as a nation.

"Dammit," Gilbert cursed, kneeling in front of Latvia to unbutton the bloody jacket. He draped it over the bathtub and pressed his fingers against the boy's forehead, checking for any depression fractures. Feeling none, Gilbert decided the most he could do was to stitch up the wound.

He pulled back clumps of Latvia's hair to reveal the split skin beneath, oozing with congealing blood. He brought up the rag, careful not to widen the gash as he pressed the damp fabric to Latvia's head.

_I still don't have enough proof!_

After hours of interrogating Estonia about current affairs in Germany, nothing had struck a tone with Gilbert. Even when Estonia talked about the East Germans as a people, Gilbert didn't feel a single stir of recognition.

And yet, the nerd had made it perfectly clear that GDR and "Budesrepublik" as he had called it, had two totally separate systems of government: One capitalist and the other communist. They each had separate flags and national anthems. The GDR answered directly to the Soviet Union, while the Budesrepublik was controlled by the rest of the Allies.

Gilbert curled a lip. _Are you happy_ _now,_ _Tommy? Pulling the strings on my brother like he's some kind of economic puppet_ _…_ _you make me sick._

But regardless of how he felt about Ludwig's treatment, Gilbert could do nothing to change it. Likewise, if Ludwig were to try to rescue him from Russia, he would piss off the Allies and jeopardize his people all over again. His brother was on a short leash.

_Maybe Luddy wanted to rescue me because he knew I was alive and represented the GDR, but couldn't because those bastards are practically babysitting him._

Gilbert put down the rag and picked up a needle and thread. He placed a hand over Latvia's head to keep it steady, pulling the needle through to create an anchor knot.

"I'm still missing something…"

He needed more information. Russia insisted he was GDR, but that could easily be a trick to break him. Estonia thought he was GDR, but that was only because he felt the East Germans deserved a representative. And Latvia believed he was GDR, but that was likely because he was just going along with what his brothers had told him. As for Lithuania…

"Who cares what he thinks, the bastard probably wants me dead, anyway."

The point was, Gilbert couldn't trust anyone here to tell the truth about his representation, while at the same time, his choice to obey Russia hinged entirely on the validity of that fact. Gilbert knew all too well the consequences of choosing people over family, and it was a decision he did not take lightly.

Using the tweezers to pull Latvia's gash closed, he tied the final knot and snipped the thread. Gilbert wiped his forehead with the back of a hand, admiring his handiwork.

"What do you think, kid? You think this is all just one of Russia's fucked up mind games?"

Some color had returned to the boy's cheeks, but he was still deathly pale. A ladder of ribs was clearly visible through a chest lashed with old whipping scars.

"I swear, if you were my little brother, I would have never let this happen to you." Gilbert wasn't sure why Latvia's condition evoked such emotion in him. "Maybe it's because you remind me of Luddy. You share his stubborn streak, that's for sure."

 _But if you're stubborn with Russia you wind up looking like this_ _…_

Gilbert's eyes widened with realization. What if knocking out Latvia was Russia's way of making a point? Estonia may have bought him some time, but Russia's message was clear: He wasn't going to wait for much longer.

Gilbert pounded his fist on the bathtub, " _Verdammt!"_

All he needed was some proof! If there was just some way he could—

Gilbert froze. "Wait a minute."

 _Sure the Allies have sticks up their asses, but would they allow that?_ He unconsciously scratched his forearm. _Snow Bastard's busy in the dungeon and Useless is on vacation. This is my only chance._

His gaze shifted to the form of Latvia slumped against the bathtub. _I can't leave him here, not like that._ Gilbert moaned at the idea of having to carry that weight again, but he had no choice.

"Okay, kid. How do you feel about a little investigation?"

* * *

Snow crunched beneath Toris's boots as he strode to the shiny black car waiting for him at the park entrance. An MGB agent stepped out and held open the door.

"Thank you," Toris muttered as he ducked into the car. The door slammed shut behind him. Toris watched some children hurling snowballs at each other as the agent walked around to the driver's seat.

"How was it?" Adrik asked, starting the ignition.

"It was beautiful, just like you said."

As the car pulled forward, the children's laughter faded and was replaced with the hum of traffic. For a while they rode in silence.

"Lithuania."

"Yes?"

"I couldn't help but notice this was the first time you've been placed on high alert since I was assigned to you." Golden irises rose to meet Toris's in the rearview. "Is there anything going on at the mansion that I should know about?"

Toris understood the real question hidden beneath Adrik's pleasantries: _Is there anything going on at the mansion that the_ _MGB_ _should know about?_ Stalin was so paranoid that the secret police kept tabs on Ivan himself, which included the mansion's affairs.

_Does that mean Ivan hasn't told the government about Prussia's release?_

Seeing no harm in it, Toris decided to tell the truth.

"Russia has been detaining the nation representative of Prussia for seven years now. The Soviet republics all knew this, but since we haven't seen him since his confinement, we assumed he was dead. As it turns out, Prussia is _not_ dead, and Russia has just released him."

Toris could see the confusion on Adrik's face. "But Prussia was dissolved five years ago."

Toris turned to the window, hiding his surprise. _Adrik doesn't even know that Prussia exists? What else has Ivan kept from his own intelligence agency?_

"Exactly our reasoning for thinking him dead," he added. "Although… there's a strong possibility he could represent the GDR."

"I see. And how do you know this?"

Toris crossed his arms, sinking into his seat. The last subject he wanted to discuss was Prussia, but if he refused to answer he might be brought in for interrogation.

"When the war ended in Europe, the nations held a meeting in Potsdam to discuss the reparations. Part of this included the division of Germany's territory—East and West. The nations held a vote as to which nation should represent which sector.

"At the time, Prussia was officially East Prussia, Germany's older brother. The vote was almost unanimous for the East Prussian representative to represent the Soviet sector. Under normal circumstances, Russia would have trained him to become a satellite state. But it had seemed his intention was to kill him."

"To kill a nation? Is that even possible?"

"For a nation as stripped of resources and leadership as Prussia was, yes. He had already lost his title as the Kingdom of Prussia since the Great War—by sentencing him to Russia's custody, most of us knew we were sentencing him to death."

"But… now you're saying that Russia hasn't killed him."

"Unfortunately no, Prussia is very much still alive."

Toris caught Adrik's surprised look in the rearview.

"We don't have the friendliest history," he explained.

"Yes, of course." After a pause Adrik said, "Would it be possible for me to meet this new representative?"

At first the request surprised Toris, until he realized that if Adrik was going to report Prussia's release to the MGB, he would need proof.

"You'd have to go through Russia for that. I'm still not sure of his intentions regarding Prussia… it's very possible he's acting on his own."

Toris knew that by admitting this, he could get Ivan into trouble with the government. But honestly answering an MGB agent only helped to clear his name, and if Ivan was busy fending off curious agents, he'd be less likely to notice any evidence of the plan.

"Yes, especially since he never disclosed Prussia's existence to us. And you're certain you don't know why he's been released?"

Toris rubbed his chin with a hand, eyes flicking across the trees as they sped by the car window. _So the government really doesn't know about Prussia. That means Ivan isn't acting under Stalin's orders. I guess that makes him easier to predict_ _…_ _but with Ivan that scale is more like going from 'impossible' to 'difficult.'_

"Lithuania?"

Toris blinked, realizing he had forgotten Adrik's question. "Oh—sorry. No, I have no idea why Prussia's been released. Estonia and I have been trying to figure that out for some time now."

"It does seem sudden, doesn't it?" Adrik fixed his eyes on the road. "But I trust Russia. Whatever he has planned, I'm sure it will be in the Soviet Union's best interest."

One trait Toris had noticed about Adrik was his unusual loyalty to Ivan as head representative. A tense relationship between Ivan and his boss had tainted Ivan's dealings with the MGB—most agents talked down to their nation, or regarded him with suspicion. This was completely different from Adrik's attitude—it seemed the agent trusted Ivan more than the government he worked for.

 _If only more of Ivan's officials were like him, how different things could be_ _…_

"I have one more question—although this is more for personal interest."

"Yes?"

"Why would you and the other nations vote for Prussia to be placed under Russia's custody if you knew it was a death sentence?"

Toris sighed, nails scratching at the leather on his seat. He could give the short answer, which was that Prussia was ruthless and deserved to die. But doing so would reveal nations' cruel nature, and he didn't want Adrik to think of him—or any other nation for that matter—as heartless.

"Originally Germany was supposed to represent the Soviet sector, as Russia had requested. But Prussia objected on grounds that Germany was too young to suffer that kind of punishment, and so he offered himself up knowing that Russia might kill him.

"When a nation dies, typically their power is inherited by a younger sibling. For the youngest to die first is unheard of—Germany was scarcely a few hundred years old compared to Prussia's thousand. It was only logical that he be the one to take the punishment."

"So he sacrificed himself so his brother could go free," Adrik muttered. "Fascinating."

Toris didn't like the way that sentence sounded.

"He may have acted selflessly in that moment, but Germany is the only person Prussia cares about aside from himself. Believe me when I say that having him locked up all these years has been a service to the rest of us. The rumors of his death spread so quickly because we wanted to believe them."

"Rumors," Adrik muttered. "If that's the case, then does Germany also think him dead?"

Toris realized that for a Soviet agent, Adrik seemed unusually interested in German affairs. Not only that, but he hadn't made any of the scathing comments Russians usually threw at the Germans.

_Maybe he's a sympathizer?_

No, that wasn't right—how else could Adrik have gotten this job if he wasn't completely loyal to the Soviet Union?

Toris turned his gaze to the window again, propping his chin up with a hand. "It's possible."

He had no interest in whether Germany thought Prussia was dead. Either way, it was likely they wouldn't see each other for decades. Ivan was probably just as determined to keep the German brothers apart as he was to keep Toris away from Feliks.

 _That's how you strip superpowers down to something you can use,_ Toris thought, twisting a thread on his uniform sleeve. _You isolate them from everyone they care about._

His thoughts were interrupted by Adrik, "Thank you for answering my questions, Lithuania. It seems the more I learn about nations, the more intrigued I become."

Toris smiled weakly. "Of course, it's only natural that you're curious. Our lives are very different than humans'."

While it wasn't his favorite topic, Toris was glad for conversation to keep his mind occupied. He had left the mansion to protect his brothers, but he couldn't be sure that it had worked. Knowing Prussia, the ex-Nazi could have done anything to get them in trouble by now. Ivan's patience was already running thin—what if he had lost his temper while Toris was gone?

 _Whatever has happened, Ivan can't blame it on me. He promised he wouldn't hurt them_ _—_ _as long as I was gone, the deal is still intact._

The car slowed, and with a start Toris realized they were already pulling into Ivan's property. He looked out the window to see the mansion looming at the end of the driveway.

The car slowed to a stop and Adrik turned around in his seat. "I won't ask why you've been put on high alert, but I assume it has to do with this Prussia being released. I respect your decisions, Lithuania. I only wish that you stay safe."

Toris understood the warning—both as a friend and MGB agent, Adrik didn't want him to do anything that would get him into trouble. He smiled, "Of course."

Adrik stepped out of the car, walking around to open the passenger door. Cold air bit into Toris's skin, and he tightened the scarf as his boots crunched through snow. Adrik helped him carry in the extra bags of food, setting them just inside the entryway.

"Da svidahnia, Lithuania," the agent said with a stiff nod.

"Da vstrechi, Adrik."

Toris had no doubt his escort would report news of Prussia's release to the MGB, so it was likely he would be seeing more agents soon. The last thing Ivan needed was to be questioned by his own government—it was an ideal distraction from the plan.

Toris unwound his scarf and hung up his jacket. He strode to the kitchen and set down his briefcase on the counter.

 _I need to find out if everyone is okay, but that's nearly impossible in this huge house_ _…_

His first priority was to know Ivan's location. If Ivan was in his office, his brothers had likely stayed out of trouble. The last thing Toris wanted was to interrupt his master, but if he did it with good reason, Ivan wouldn't suspect anything.

 _I can just tell him I've returned from my grocery trip and offer him vodka._ It was the logical thing to do anyway—if Toris reported himself, Ivan might trust him again.

Toris dug a bottle of vodka from the briefcase and took long strides out of the kitchen towards Russia's office. He glanced down the hallways and into the rooms he passed, looking for any sign of his brothers. He quickened his pace when he realized the mansion seemed unusually quiet.

"Please be safe, please, _please_ be safe," he muttered, the sound of his own footsteps echoing in the halls around him. By the time Toris reached Ivan's office, he had almost broken into a run. He staggered to a stop, trying to catch his breath.

_I'm going to report where I was, what I was doing there, what time I left, and what time I arrived. Then I'll ask if he would like any vodka._

Toris took a deep breath and straightened, pulling the hem of his jacket. He lifted his fist to knock on the office door three times. "Mr. Russia, sir? May I come in?"

Toris heard what sounded like an exclamation from behind the door. He frowned. "Sir? Is everything alright?"

Silence.

Toris bit a lip; this wasn't good. If Ivan was inside but not answering it meant he was in a bad mood and should be avoided… but if Ivan wasn't inside, that meant his brothers could be in real danger.

Toris set his jaw in determination. _I have to know._

He pulled the giant door open with a low creak.

"I've come to report that I—"

His voice died in his throat.

The body was limp and shirtless, almost skeletal against the dark carpet. His eyes were closed, and a white bandages had been wrapped around blond curls sticky with blood.

Lying face up on the floor in front of Russia's desk, was Raivis.

* * *

HISTORY NOTES

**Nazi treatment of Soviets**

Slavic people were also considered to be subhuman by the Nazis. This resulted in horrendous treatment of not only the Poles, but also Russians, Belorussians, Ukrainians, and anyone serving in the Red Army. Treatment was particularly harsh on Soviet POW's, who became the first prisoners of concentration camps like Auschwitz. The racist targeting of Soviet POW's was deliberate, as about 57% of those taken prisoner had died by the end of the war. This is a stark contrast to the mere 4% of American and British POW's, whom the Nazis considered to be racially equal to Germans. (Source: BBC’s _Auschwitz: The Nazis and the Final Solution,_ Salaspils Memorial in Latvia)

**The Siege of Leningrad**

Considered to be one of the longest and most destructive sieges in history, the "Leningrad Blockade" was one of the Nazi's strategic goals of Operation Barbarossa. The siege lasted 900 days, from September of 1941 until January of 1944. Leningrad was completely cut off from any way to evacuate its civilians or import food, with the few available routes such as the "Road of Life" across the frozen Lake Ladoga being extremely dangerous. The city suffered bombings, an absence of heating in an unusually harsh winter, and rampant starvation. By the end of the siege, an estimated 1,500,000 soldiers and civilians had died, exceeding the death toll of the Battle of Stalingrad. Cannibalism was relatively rare, although it was common for people to murder each other for their ration cards. The Leningrad Blockade truly haunts the Russian psyche, as many Russians will repeat stories told from relatives who lived through the siege. 

**The Teutonic Knights and Lithuania**

After conquering the Baltic regions of present-day Latvia and Estonia, the Germans turned their attention to the only remaining pagan nation in Europe: Lithuania. Thus began a series of crusades which would lock the Teutonic Order and Lithuania in battle for over a century. The king of Lithuania, Mindaugas, was baptized after his coronation in 1253, but this did not stop the Crusaders' attacks. Lithuania officially converted to Catholicism in 1386 when the Grand Duke married the Queen of Poland, but this did not stop the attacks either. It wasn't until 1410 with the Battle of Grunwald (or "Žalgiris" in Lithuanian) that the Lithuanians defeated the Teutonic Knights and prevented German influence from attempting to push further East. This battle is so essential to Lithuanian nationalism that the Kaunas basketball team is called Žalgiris.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> "Bundesrepublik" is the German name for what we call West Germany. In English its full name is the Federal Republic of Germany, or the FRG.  
> "Tommy" was a nickname for British soldiers that was used by the German, French, and British Commonwealth armies during WWI. When Gilbert says it here, he is referring to Arthur Kirkland.  
> "Da svidahnia" is a formal, more final way to say goodbye. "Da vstrechi" is a more informal, "see you later" often used between friends. "Do" in Russian means "until," so literally, "until the meeting."
> 
> Thanks so much for reading, and please leave comments!


	14. Broliai — Brothers

"R—R…"

Toris was so shocked, he couldn't even say the boy's name. Paper shuffled, then he looked up to see documents spread across the floor behind Ivan's desk.

Then he heard it: Low, scratchy mutters in German.

The rage came so fast, Toris wasn't even aware of sprinting across the room before a pair of red eyes flashed in his direction.

" _Sheiss_ _e!"_ Prussia cursed, just as Toris grabbed him by the collar and threw a punch across his jaw.

He slammed him to the ground and pinned him down with one knee. Prussia howled in pain as Toris snatched a letter opener from the desk. A war cry tore from his throat as he plunged the dagger-like tool down to Prussia's chest.

The stab was blocked—Prussia's hands clamped around Toris's wrists, panting as he struggled against the weight.

" _What_ _—_ _did you_ _—_ _do?"_ Toris hissed in a ragged voice that sounded more beast than human.

Prussia bared his teeth in a snarl, arms trembling to keep the point of the letter opener from sinking through his chest.

"Gh—get off… "

Toris was enraged; even when caught red-handed this monster wouldn't admit to his crimes! He grunted and tried to pull back for another stab, but Prussia's grip held his arms firmly in place. Blood leaked from the cracks in his teeth,

"My ribs… are—broken—you… bastard…"

At first Toris was confused, but that would explain how he had so easily pinned the Prussian down.

 _If Prussia's ribs are broken, that can only mean_ _…_

"I won't ask again," he snarled, digging his knee into Prussia's torso.

Red eyes widened and Prussia let out a gargled gasp. He tried to speak but began to choke on his own blood, only able to sputter as sweaty fingers tightened around Toris's.

Something nagged in the back of Toris's mind—why was this familiar? Had he fought Prussia like this before?

_I was there, I saw it with my own eyes. Prussiya straddled Poland and ripped off his shirt_ _…_

Toris's eyes widened with realization. He looked straight into those crimson irises, only inches away from his own.

"Ivan told me how you killed Feliks."

With an abrupt twist, he broke free of Prussia's grip. Pale fingers reached for his neck but Toris slammed Prussia's wrists to the floor.

_Prussiya only laughed and plunged the knife into his stomach. He cut further, further_ _…_ _and then pinched Poland's nose so that he couldn't breathe._

Toris reached up with his free hand to pinch Prussia's nose. Prussia's chest lurched as he tried to gasp for air, but his mouth only filled with more blood.

_When I left, Poland's body was still tied to the floor. Prussiya was making jokes about selling his hair for a profit._

Toris held his nemesis down as he watched his face grow red, then purple, then blue. He wanted to watch Prussia die—in the same way this savage had straddled Feliks and made him suffocate on his own blood in 1939.

How many times did Toris have to pick up the pieces for his friends because of what the Nazis did? Feliks, Raivis, Natalia… clinging to his uniform jacket as tears soaked into the fabric, screaming from the horrors they had suffered:

_Kill me, Liet!_

_Toris, I'm scared_ _…_

 _I_ _—_ _I-I want to go home_ _…_

Toris pinched harder, even as Prussia began to kick in his panic. _You don't deserve to live_ _—_ _not when you've treated your fellow nations like pigs for the slaughter!_

Suddenly Toris was struck with the image of the fragile, broken form of Raivis lying on the floor.

 _Wait_ _—_ _what am I doing!?_ In his blind rage, Toris had forgotten what he had sworn to protect. Allowing himself to be consumed with revenge would do nothing to help his brothers… and whether or not Toris wanted to admit it, he couldn't do it alone.

Toris let go of Prussia's nose, taking the weight off of his torso as he stepped away.

Prussia rolled onto his knees, chest heaving as he coughed blood onto the floor. "You—you're fucking crazy!"

Toris folded his arms, "What did you do to Raivis?"

"It—it wasn't me…" Prussia groaned and pressed a hand to his ribs. "It was Russia!"

Toris took in a sharp breath. "You're lying," he growled. He meant it to sound aggressive, but his voice wavered.

"I'm not the liar, here." Prussia glared at Toris through blood-caked bangs. "I thought you would've learned by now: Never make deals with Communists."

 _Deals? He can't mean_ _—_

"Russia's usually drunk shitless when he comes to the dungeon; of course he's told me about your little 'arrangement.' When you came out of his office looking like someone had just run over your puppy with a Panzer—" Prussia broke into wet coughs, wheezing as he flashed a bloody smirk. "Let's just say I had a hunch."

Toris stared in shock. _He knew!?_

Suddenly it made sense why Prussia claimed to know so much about his relationship with Ivan. The nicknames he used— _slut, boyfriend_ _…_ What else might Russia had revealed to Prussia in that dungeon? And if Prussia knew their relationship was nothing more than a deal, why did he act like Toris wanted it?

 _Unless_ _…_ _Ivan made it seem this way because that's how he's been interpreting my actions this entire time._

Toris decided to save that bit of speculation for later; he had bigger problems to worry about.

"Explain exactly what happened."

Prussia muttered darkly in German, shifting into a more comfortable position on the floor. For the first time Toris realized how awful the ex-Nazi looked—his uniform jacket was soaked with blood, the red liquid streaking down his chin and into his shirt. A deep gash glistened on his head, white hair clumped where the blood had dried.

Toris shuddered—only a madman would prioritize rifling through Ivan's desk over bandaging a wound like that.

"I'll make this short," Prussia growled. "Snow Bastard lied about that sweet little _deal_ of yours—he was planning to get Eddy the whole time."

For a moment Toris forgot to breathe. "Get… Eduard? You mean…"

"Don't pretend like you didn't know leaving the mansion was a stupid idea. You didn't actually think that psycho would keep his word, did you?"

 _No_ _…_ _I was trying to protect them, it was the only way! How was I supposed to know that he was lying!?_

Toris was unable to hide the tremor in his voice for his next question: "Where is Eduard?"

Prussia spat a glob of blood onto the floor and wiped his mouth with a sleeve. "You're the expert on Russia, not me. Where do you think?"

Toris brought a hand to his mouth. _No_ _…_ _no! No, he couldn't, he_ _—_ _he said he would give me a second chance!_

"He's an _empire_ , Useless. What, you think he's going to let you and Eddy dance circles around him with your little 'plan' and go unpunished? He'll break as many deals as it takes for him to be in control again."

Toris shot Prussia a glare, "You would know."

Prussia picked up the letter opener from the floor, watching the silver reflections shift as he flipped it from one side to another.

"You and I are on two sides of the same coin, Useless. You see Russia at his best, I see him at his worst. Of course you thought he'd keep the deal, that's what he wants you to think. The more you trust him, the more it hurts when he takes that trust and crushes it."

Toris's hands balled into fists. "And yet you so conveniently failed to mention this earlier."

"I didn't know this would happen, if that's what you're thinking." Prussia threw the letter opener like a dart. It hit the desk with a _thunk,_ sharp tip lodging into the wood. "Besides, even if I had, you were too busy preaching to believe me, Mister 'think-of-someone-else-besides-yourself.’ Tell me, Useless: Where were _you_ when your brothers were getting knocked around like bowling pins?"

Toris couldn't believe it. Was Prussia actually scolding _him_ for failing to protect his brothers? He had been putting his life on the line for Eduard and Raivis since the day he swore to protect them almost a century ago. Meanwhile Prussia had been vetting his brother for war and dragging him into one deadly conflict after another—and he had the audacity to say that _Toris_ was the selfish one? What kind of a twisted world did Prussia live in?

"I left to _protect_ them," Toris growled. "Knowing you, I wouldn't be surprised if you just stood on the sidelines enjoying the show."

Prussia huffed, "Actually, I did try to distract Russia… but it was mostly because I was bored. It was obvious he was going to catch Eddy; I just wanted to make things more interesting."

Somehow that disgusted Toris even more. The Baltics' method of survival depended on the three of them making sacrifices for each other, and yet Prussia was treating it as a luxury.

Toris's nails dug into his arms, _Just stay focused; getting angry won't fix anything._

"What about Raivis?"

Prussia glanced to the boy lying on the floor. The smugness of before seemed to vanish, replaced with—

Toris blinked; _No, that can't be concern_ _…_

"The kid? I'm not sure; Russia knocked me out before he showed up. My guess is, he came running to save Eddy."

 _So Prussia wasn't responsible after all_ _…_ _unless he's lying._

But Prussia's explanation made sense, and Toris couldn't see how lying would be of any advantage to him. He scanned the documents and files spread across the floor, and the sick feeling in his stomach grew worse. Prussia may not have triggered Ivan's outrage the first time, but the ex-Nazi had committed the greatest taboo by going through their master's files. If things were bad now, it was nothing compared to what Ivan would do when he found out.

 _We could try fitting them back into the file cabinets_ _…_

Toris's attention was drawn to the splotches of blood staining the carpet, a few drops even spattered onto the documents.

_Shit, that was my fault; I shouldn't have attacked him!_

"If you're nervous about my little break-in, don't be." Prussia picked up one of the documents with a thumb and forefinger. "The deal's off, right? So you have nothing to lose." He let go and the paper drifted to the floor, soaking up a blotch of blood from the carpet.

Toris took in a sharp breath. If the deal was truly off, then Prussia was right: There was nothing he could do to regain Ivan's trust.

 _But this is different_ _—_ _Ivan broke the deal, not me._

So what did that mean? Was this just a stunt to scare him into submission, or did Ivan really intend to start beating his brothers again? It almost made sense, since Prussia wouldn't be staying in the dungeon anymore…

_But it's too simple; it's not Ivan's style._

"No, you're wrong. Just because Ivan hurt my brothers, that doesn't mean the deal is off. He likes mind games; this could be a strategic move to win over my cooperation."

"Cooperation, huh?" Prussia picked up the paper from the ground and held it up so that Toris could see the blood splotch covering Ivan's signature at the bottom. "Well it looks like you're out of luck, Useless. You're betting on the fact that Russia will believe you when you tell him I was the one who trashed this place—but what business does a dead nation have snooping around in his files?"

Toris narrowed his eyes. "You're not dead. Ivan knows that better than anyone. And you're right, he may not believe me… but I trust his judgement over yours."

Prussia curled a lip. "Just as I thought, you're going to keep playing the good boy even though your brother is being whipped as we speak. Disgusting."

Toris's heart wrenched at the thought of what Eduard could be experiencing in the dungeon. For a moment he wanted to believe that Prussia was right—technically speaking, Ivan had broken the agreement and so Toris was at liberty to make good on his promise to fight back. But this had always been more of a bluff than an actual threat—Toris knew he would never last more than a year defying his master's orders. Ivan must have known this all along, which is why he could whip Eduard without any consequences.

Both of them had tested the waters to see how far the other would allow them to go. Toris had gone too far, so Ivan was firing a warning shot. The image of a whip coming down on his brother's back was too much to bear, but Toris saw Ivan's abuse for what it was: Nothing more than a power play. He understood that if he or Ivan violated the terms one more time, the entire agreement would collapse, and he could _not_ allow that to happen… even if it meant abandoning Eduard.

"Every decision I make is a decision to protect my brothers," he said in a low voice. "I don't expect you to understand that after seeing what became of yours."

There was a soft _whish,_ and Toris jumped aside just in time to avoid a silver streak. It grazed his side, ripping the threads of his uniform. Toris spun around to watch the letter opener tumble across the carpet.

"You're lucky my ribs are broken," Prussia growled. His eyes were two glowing embers, blood dripping down his chin as he glared at Toris. "Or I would have slit your throat, climbed over your bleeding carcass and kept looking through Russia's files."

Toris's shoulders slumped; _I should have expected that._ This was Prussia he was dealing with, after all. But something was off—it wasn't like Prussia to admit weakness. _He's used to winning in combat, but I could have easily killed him just now._

Toris allowed his gaze to rest on his old rival. Prussia may be skilled, but his strength was nothing compared to before the war. It was a bitter irony—at last they were evenly matched, only this time as subordinates rather than world powers.

Prussia scowled, "What the hell are you looking at?"

Toris turned to pick up the letter opener, then strode towards Ivan's desk. "Nothing. Help me carry Raivis back to our room."

"Didn't you hear what I just said? My ribs are broken!"

Toris slid the letter opener to its usual place, aligning it parallel to the desk's edge. "You carried him here by yourself, didn't you? So it shouldn't be a problem."

"You really are a bitch," Prussia muttered as he struggled to his feet. "I'm—hh—starting to see— _ah!_ —why Russia likes you so much."

Toris watched as Prussia hoisted himself up using the desk. Judging by the amount of blood he had coughed up earlier, this definitely wasn't an act.

_I still don't trust him; there's no telling what he's capable of. Most nations wouldn't even be awake after a blow to the head like that._

As Prussia limped to Raivis's side and Toris joined him, he was sure of one thing: He needed to get the ex-Nazi behind a locked door as soon as possible.

The trip to the Baltics' bedroom was punctuated by a colorful array of German curses and hisses of pain. At last they managed to stagger down the staircase and lay Raivis onto his bed. The blood has mostly dried, so it didn't soak into the linens like Toris had seen many times before.

"Hey Useless."

Toris didn't bother to look at Prussia, hands pressing Raivis's bare chest to check for any broken bones.

"You got a cigarette?"

His eyes flicked up to Prussia, then back down to his brother. "No."

As far as Toris could tell, Raivis's only injury was hidden beneath the bandages wrapped around his head. He clipped the strips of fabric, peeling them back to see fresh stitches protruding from a mat of sweaty curls. The job was done correctly, but almost as if in a hurry—certainly not the meticulous needlework of Eduard. Then it hit Toris, and his hand jerked away.

 _These are_ _…_ _Prussia's stitches?_

His eyes darted to the Prussian, who sighed and rolled his eyes. "I didn't _lobotomize_ him, geez. Who do you think I am, Mengele or something?"

 _Of course_ _—_ the stitches couldn't have been Eduard's, he was in the dungeon! But Toris was so used to it being just the three of them, he had assumed the bandages were Eduard's doing. It had never even occurred to him that Prussia would have tended to Raivis's wounds.

His gaze darkened, "If you hurt him—"

"I didn't."

The silence pressed around them as Toris searched those blood-red eyes for any sign of lying. Prussia's face didn't waver, lips pressed into a firm line that dared Toris to challenge his word.

_Why would Prussia tend to Raivis? What does he stand to gain?_

He couldn't fathom why the Prussian had decided to help his brother, but whatever the reason, it must benefit him somehow. This, along with the search through Ivan's files, only worried Toris more.

 _He's definitely planning something_ _…_ _and I can't let it go any further._

Toris turned on his heel and walked to his dresser. He opened the top drawer, feeling along the bottom until his hand brushed a small metal key. Toris shoved it in his pocket and strode towards the door.

"Come with me."

Prussia let out a dejected sigh. "I'm gonna throw out a wild guess that's not a pack of cigarettes."

Toris didn't bother to answer; it was obvious Prussia just wanted attention. He made sure Prussia's footsteps followed him as he walked down the hall to the bathroom. Toris opened the cabinet door and took out some bandages and disinfectant.

"You _really_ don't trust me, do you?"

"These aren't for Raivis," Toris muttered. He opened a second cabinet filled with extra uniforms and pulled down the size that would have been Eduard's. The Estonian and Prussia were about the same height; it would have to do until Ivan fit him for his own uniform. Toris grimaced; he still couldn’t believe that Ivan actually intended to train this ex-Nazi to be a satellite state.

"Wait—you guys have uniforms in here too?"

"Blood is a pain to wash out. Hold these."

Toris shoved the medical supplies and uniforms into Prussia's arms, and at last he seemed to understand who they were for.

"Don't tell me this is all I get. Don't you have pain pills or something?"

Toris sighed, deciding he'd rather Prussia be numbed and quiet than pained and obnoxious. He grabbed a bottle from the cabinet and tossed it onto the pile of clothes in Prussia's arms. "The dose is two every four hours. Taking more doesn't help."

Prussia followed him out of the bathroom, then Toris opened the door to a guest room down the hall from theirs. It was the same room Ivan had asked him to prepare, complete with—

"Ah, you gotta be shitting me! _Chains?_ Really?!"

"Ivan's orders. And I only gave you medical supplies because he wants you healthy enough to do housework."

Prussia's gaze slid to send Toris a glare. He looked ready to make a snarky comment, but then just huffed through his nose and strode into the room. Prussia threw off the bloodied jacket and pulled on the fresh uniform, then held out his hands to be shackled.

As Toris fit the shackles over his wrists, he searched the Prussian's face for any clues… only to be met with a rare deadpan. _Something's not right. It's just not like him to submit like this._

The shackles closed on Prussia's wrists with a _click_. Toris felt a crimson gaze on him as he made his way to the door.

"Wait!"

Toris ignored him, pulling the door closed.

"How did Russia break you?"

He froze, caught off guard by the question.

"You said it took sixty-five years. What finally did it?"

Toris frowned; was Prussia starting to admit that Russia could break him? His first instinct was to make a snide remark and close the door, but he realized that an honest answer might help Prussia to become more cooperative.

"We kept losing. No matter how many times I escaped, or how hard we fought back… Russia's army would crush us, slaughtering more of my people than I could count. After the second war, I realized it just wasn't worth it anymore."

"But are you glad you fought back?"

Toris sighed. "I was a different nation back then. I thought all of this was temporary; anyone in my position would have done the same thing. I just didn't understand how serious Ivan was when he referred to us as his 'family.' I knew he had a rough childhood, but I underestimated him." He smiled bitterly, "We all did."

Prussia wrinkled his nose. "You didn't answer my question."

Toris met Prussia with weary eyes. "If you're asking me whether or not you should fight back, I would advise against it. We were Ivan's first subordinates—I didn't know any better. It would be irresponsible of you to make the same mistakes."

Prussia let out a humorless laugh. Toris didn't see what was so funny… then again, Prussia never took things seriously.

"Yeah, well there's one little problem: How do I know this whole GDR thing isn't complete bullshit? I'm the only one who can know for sure if I represent them and I don't feel a damn thing."

"I was the same way after Ivan released me from the dungeon." Toris paused, then reached into his coat pocket to pull out the damp pack of cigarettes.

Prussia's eyes widened. "Is that—!"

Toris drew a lighter from his other pocket and flicked on the flame until a soft orange ember burned on the end of the cigarette. He tossed it into the room and the chains rattled as Prussia snatched it from the air. The ex-Nazi gave him a strange look, confused at the kind gesture.

"It will take time—drinking alcohol and smoking will clear your head, even eating food can help. In the meantime I suggest you avoid doing anything rash, for your people's sake and ours. Of course…" Toris's gaze darkened. "You've already proven that you have no regard for human life, so in my opinion you don't deserve to be responsible for anyone."

Prussia chuckled, lifting the cigarette to his mouth and breathing in deeply. He blew out the smoke in a long breath. "You want me dead."

"Not only did you betray your own people, you dragged the entire continent into your selfish power games again and again. And because of it, your brother felt expected to do the same." Toris scoffed. "I wouldn't be surprised if he was glad to get rid of you—to realize he'd been living a lie."

Prussia blew out a long stream of smoke, the whips whirling around him and floating up to lick the ceiling. "That's the second time you've mentioned my brother today," he muttered.

He plucked the cigarette from his mouth. "Fine, if you're so intent on family matters let's talk about _your_ brothers, ja? You treated them as nothing more than your damn property, you left them here to get whipped while you ran off to suck Poland's crossdressing cock in the back of some bar."

Toris's hand tightened around the door handle. _How does he know this?_

"Oh sure, you'd do anything for them _now_ _…_ but that's only because you've run out of things to fight for. Tell me, Useless… did you ever consider giving Latvia a share of your power? Maybe teaching him how to lead an empire, or charge a battlefield?"

Toris froze. _What?_ Where was this coming from?

"No, you didn't. You wanted it all to yourself—just you and that Polish brat. You didn't invest in your 'brother,' you didn't let him fight on the battlefield with you and promote him to high ranks and give him leadership responsibilities. All of your power and influence, and you gave him _nothing._ Do you even realize how different Latvia's life might be if you had actually treated him like family?"

Crimson eyes met Toris through the smoky haze. "I might be a power-crazy madman. But at least I shared it."

Toris shut the door with a _SLAM._

He stared at his trembling hand on the knob.

_How does he know about the uprisings?_

Toris was so shaken, the key rattled in the doorknob as he locked it. He ran a hand through his hair and strode back to his room.

Toris pulled up a chair as he stared at the thin body stretched out across the bed. He allowed his gaze to move over the various scars marring his brother, then he reached out to take the boy's hand.

Raivis's palms were cool to the touch, calloused from years of housework. Toris leaned forward on his knees, hair falling around his face like a curtain as he brought the boy's knuckles to his lips.

_When his eyes flicked open, all he could see was a blank grey. Toris tried to move, but his entire body seemed frozen. Then it hit him: an aching pain so intense, each of his muscles throbbed._

_"_ _…_ _Feliks?"_

_His voice was a dry croak, as if it hadn't been used in days. Toris began to panic; where was he?_

_"Feliks? Feliks, where are_ _—_ _"_

_A hand took his and Toris's eyes darted to meet a pair of violets. Toris frowned in confusion. "Livonia?"_

_"You shouldn't speak; it will conserve your energy."_

" _Where am I, what's going on?"_

_The last thing Toris remembered was charging the battlefield, bullets whistling past his ears and the sky choked with the smoke of gunfire. What on earth was Livonia doing here?_

" _You're in Petersburg, sir."_

_Toris's eyes widened as he realized the implication of those words. Panic overtook him, his breathing escalating as he tried to sit up._

_"What? No, that can't be, we can't_ _—_ ah!" _He realized why it was so difficult to move: he was covered in bandages._

 _Livonia jumped from his chair, supporting Toris and laying him back against the headboard. "You shouldn't move. Master Russia beat you really badly, you've been unconscious for days. Here_ _—_ _we made some tea for you."_

_Toris's eyes widened in horror. "Days?"_

_No, that was impossible, he was supposed to be on the front fighting for independence with Feliks! Then it came back to him: He had surrendered and apologized to the Tsar at the Winter Palace. And when he got home_ _…_

_Toris jumped when a saucer was placed in his lap._

_"I made it with sugar, just how you like it."_

_Toris's bandaged fingers curled around the handle of the teacup._ _"I'm sorry."_

_Livonia's eyes flicked towards him, confused._

_"We_ _—_ _we should have won. I was going to get you out of this place, I was going to_ _—_ _" Toris bowed his head, hair falling around his face. "I have failed you." The room lapsed into silence, the weight of defeat crushing his chest._

" _Why didn't you take me with you?"_

 _Toris looked up to see Livonia staring at him with a new intensity. The boy's hands balled into trembling fists. "You say you left to protect me, to win back our independence_ _—_ _but if that's the case, why did_ _—_ _why did you leave me here? You didn't even tell me you were going!"_

 _Toris had never seen his subordinate this angry. "Livonia, I_ _—_ _"_

" _NO!"_

 _Tears welled up in the boy's eyes. "No more excuses, no more lies! You pretend like I'm your family, when really all you want is to have your power back! You don't care about me or my people_ _—_ _the only one you care about is yourself!" He threw down his fists as he shouted,_

_"I HATE YOU!"_

Toris's fingers tightened around his little brother's hand. His eyes screwed shut as his shoulders lurched with a sob.

"Raivis…"

Hot tears rolled down his face, landing on the floor in dark splotches as he wept.

"I tried, I—I'm sorry… I'm so _so_ sorry…"

* * *

HISTORY NOTES

**The Invasion of Poland**

The Nazis attacked Poland on September 1, 1939. They advanced on Poland's western, southern and northern borders, while aircraft began raids on Polish cities. By September 17, Poland's only hope was to retreat and reorganize. These plans were destroyed overnight when the 800,000-strong Red Army attacked from the East. In addition to conquering the country, the invasion was an attempt to create "living space" for Germans. Atrocities were committed against Polish civilians, and up to 200,000 were killed. After the invasion was over, Poland was divided in half between the Third Reich and the Soviet Union.

**Mengele**

Josef Mengele is the most infamous Nazi SS physician who performed human experiments at Auschwitz concentration camp. He was known as the "Angel of Death" and experimented on pairs of twins, many of which resulted in the death of his test subjects. I will expand more on human experimentation later in the story.

**Livonia**

During the time of the Russian Empire, what is today Latvia and Estonia was divided into three regions: Courland, Livonia, and Estonia. Originally Courland and Livonia had been lumped together and called simply "Livonia," so this would have been Raivis’s nation name. (Livonians were one of the many tribes of the area at the time; the name of the region just happened to take after them.) There was no sense of a united "Latvian" nation or people until the national awakening in the late 1850's, and this flashback takes place in 1831. Thus Raivis is still using the name his conquerors dubbed him when they took over the Baltic tribes inhabiting his land, rather than the name his people chose for their newly defined nation. (Source: _The Latvian Saga_ by Uldis Ģērmanis)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Toris's flashbacks are from my short story, [Don't Let Me Die](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/11874016/1/Don-t-Let-Me-Die). Russia basically lied to him after the invasion and told him that Poland was dead, but Toris thinks he was telling the truth about what Prussia did to Feliks. You should definitely go read it ;) 
> 
> Thanks for reading, comments are much loved!


	15. Vangikoobas — Dungeon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is the first in a series of chapters that will be especially graphic, both in violence and other kinds of abuse. Again I am not fantasizing these experiences, as real people in history and even the present-day have lived through them. Please keep this in mind as you read, thanks!

Eduard's heart pounded in his ears and his legs shook so intensely, he could barely stay on his feet as he stumbled down the hall.

Russia's broad shoulders swayed before him, and Eduard's throat tightened when he realized his master was having trouble walking in a straight line.

They stopped when they reached a square metal door.

Russia pulled a string with a key attached to it from his neck, and Eduard watched in horror as his master unsuccessfully jammed the key into the door until it finally hit the keyhole. There was a dull clunk as it unlocked, then Russia swung it open with an earsplitting _creeeaaak_.

"Well," Russia snarled, lips twisted into a smirk. "What are you _waiting_ for?!"

With the last two words, he shoved Eduard's back and he lurched forward into the darkness. His outstretched hands met thin air as he fell, stone steps jabbing into his ribs and sending sharp pains shooting up his jaw. The world continued to spin even as Eduard’s face pressed to the cold surface of the dungeon floor. Heavy footsteps reverberated through the ground as his master descended the staircase.

"On your feet, Baltic trash."

Eduard struggled to sit up, but a boot dug into his ribcage and he collapsed with a moan.

"I said GET UP!" Russia roared.

Eduard tried again, clenching his teeth as he slowly rose to his feet. There was a soft _whoosh,_ and Russia's fist knocked the air out of Eduard as he doubled over, spit flying from his mouth. Russia hooked his arm around Eduard’s waist, and the toes of his boots dragged over the flaky cement until Russia let him go. Eduard's entire body jarred as his knees collided with the floor.

"Shirt, off."

The blackness was so complete Eduard couldn't even see his own hand in front of his face. He reached up to unbutton his uniform with trembling fingers.

"Faster!" Russia barked. "I do not have all day."

Eduard coughed, fingers flying to unbutton his uniform. He threw the coat aside and pulled off his undershirt, fabric damp from nervous sweat. The shirt barely left his back before a strong pair of hands forced his wrists into a pair of iron shackles, their low height allowing for him to sit on his knees.

Eduard was familiar with this position—back bare, hands clasped together to a wooden post, head bowed to the floor. He trembled with the terror of knowing what was to come.

 _No, this can't_ _…_ _this can't be happening again!_

Footsteps retreated, then Eduard heard a short whistle as a whip sailed through the air.

_CRACK!_

"AHH!"

His back arched in pain, the whip stinging like fire.

Normally Russia would punctuate his torture with sadistic, mocking remarks, but it was clear his master was angry beyond words. There was barely a pause before leather slithered back, then another whistle—

_CRACK!_

"Uh—uhnn," Eduard hissed through his teeth, trying to show as little pain as possible. He tensed again as the whip sailed back.

_CRACK!_

His knees dug through his uniform, scraping against the flakes on the floor. Eduard wondered how many times Prussia had been shackled to this post.

_CRACK!_

"Ah-ahh!"

_CRACK!_

"Mhm!"

Eduard braced himself for more, eyes squeezed shut in anticipation of the next blow. But after the whip whistled back across the dungeon, there was no sound of it returning.

Beyond his pants for air, Eduard heard a bottle cap being unscrewed, then the echo of loud gulps.

He bit back a groan— _Russia_ needed a break!?

Eduard took the opportunity to reposition himself. His thighs ached from the kneeling position, but as the shackles rattled on the wood Eduard realized there was little he could do to make himself more comfortable.

At last the gulps stopped, and there was a hollow _thump_ of Russia setting down the vodka bottle.

"It had not been my intention to hurt you right away, but I needed to draw blood."

Russia's voice was gruff and wet, as though he had just satisfied some morbid appetite. Eduard shuddered—even the Russian himself knew he could barely control his own violent urges. Prussia's words came back to him:

" _You idiots keep pissing him off, and what does he do? He comes raging down here to vent, that's what. Do you know how many of my scars have your name on them, Tea Boy?"_

"Da," Russia said, his voice suddenly clear and cheerful. "Now we may begin."

Eduard tensed. _Begin what? Was this not my punishment?_

"The rules are simple. I will ask you a question and you will answer it. If you refuse to answer, or if I think that you are lying, you will suffer for it."

Eduard's eyes widened. This wasn't supposed to be an interrogation, he thought Russia was just using him to make a point!

_CRACK!_

"AH-ah!"

"And if I feel this is not having an effect I will resort to… _other_ means of getting what I want."

 _No_ _…_ _no, no, no!_

The shackles rattled as Eduard’s hands shook, breath hot against the wood. This would not be the first time he had been interrogated, but before he'd possessed no information that would be of any help to Russia. Now he would have to resist torture in order to keep the plan a secret.

_I can do this. Russia is probably just going to ask about Toris trying to run away, there's no way he'll ever get close to knowing the plan._

"Here is my first question, Estonia: Are you aware of any reason Toris would want Prussiya to be released from the dungeon?"

Eduard felt the world around him freeze. His breath caught in his throat, mind replaying the words Russia had spoken.

Russia's footsteps echoed in the darkness as he began to pace behind him.

"I know what you must be thinking—this is absurd, Lithuania and Prussiya's hate for each other goes back centuries. But after you and Prussiya left my office, I began tracing back everything that has been happening in the last few days… and I realized there was an invaluable clue I had missed."

 _No_ _…_ _what could it be? What could I have possibly done to give so much away!?_

"Before any of this started—two days ago, I believe—I walked in on Litva cursing in his own language. At first I assumed he was angry at me, but he insisted this was not the case—that he was angry at _Prussiya."_

 _Oh no_ _…_ _No_ _…_

Eduard's shackled hands balled into fists and he bit his tongue to keep from cursing out loud. _Dammit, Toris!_

"At the time I was mildly surprised—I had never heard him speak of the war before. I brushed it off as a mere memory that had resurfaced; I myself suffer from vivid flashbacks. But in my office, it all came together. Toris had asked me to hold a meeting with the _satellite states._ At first I found this to be strange—why would Toris request a meeting that wouldn't even require his attendance? But that's when I realized: It would require _Prussiya's."_

Eduard’s eyes grew wider with each word.

"Now that I see the connections, I cannot dismiss them as coincidences. I am positive that somehow holding this meeting was a means of getting me to release Prussiya from the dungeon—what I don't understand is why. Why, after centuries of hating Prussiya, would Toris want him to be released? Litva would have known he cannot kill Prussiya himself. And the fight in the dining room proves their teamwork is disastrous."

Eduard raced to think of any possible way to get out of this one. Any flaw in Russia's logic, any crack he could escape through… But each idea only brought him to a roadblock. He grit his teeth, taking long shuddery breaths. Russia had him completely trapped.

"Of course if you know nothing of his plans, all of this will sound ludicrous to you. But you yourself have been acting strangely, have you not? You continue to be concerned for Prussiya's well-being, almost as if you are protecting him. So you see, it is useless for you to claim that you do not know anything, Estonia. The evidence is quite clear to me that you and Toris are working together to ensure both Prussiya's release and his safety. All that is left for you to tell me, is why."

The shackles rattled on the whipping post as Eduard shook. His breath came in hot, short gasps as panic screamed through his head.

_How could I have been so stupid, so arrogant to think that I could ever outsmart Russia!?_

A coarse whistle sailed through the air, and hot leather ripped into his back with a deafening _CRACK!_

"AAH!"

"Remember, Estonia, we are on a time limit here. I hope your tongue is as sharp as your mind."

Eduard let out a groan. At this point it would be useless to deny any of the evidence Russia had presented. He wasn't asking how they had executed their plan, or what came next—all he wanted to know was their reason for doing so. If Eduard could think of a believable lie, his master would be satisfied.

He racked his brain for an excuse.

_Why would we want Prussia to be released? Why would we care about his safety?_

Eduard was struck with the image of the Prussian standing in front of the bathroom mirror, chest lacerated as he stared wide-eyed at his own reflection.

"Prussia is one of us. He's a living, breathing nation who is responsible for millions of his people. And for seven years, we let him rot down here and didn't do a thing to stop it."

The words surprised Eduard, but for some reason he felt them to be true. A coarse whistle echoed just in time to brace himself.

_CRACK!_

The skin on his back split, warm blood beginning to seep from the wound.

"Don't spout moral nonsense to me, boy," Russia snarled. "Prussiya is a mass murderer who systematically slaughtered your people. You know just as well as I do that he deserved every second spent in that dungeon."

"And you're saying we don't? Every nation has been a mass murderer at some point—we've ravaged each other until entire fields, rivers, and seas are stained red with the blood of our people. Who's to say that England, or China, or even _you_ don't deserve seven years half-starved and beaten to death?"

Russia let out a low growl, and Eduard tensed as the whip came down again.

_CRACK!_

"AH! Hhh, hh!" Eduard could feel the blood soaking into the waistline of his pants.

"You know nothing of blood," Russia growled in a voice that sounded more beast than human. "While you and your brothers were safely tucked away in Berlin, I was _wading_ in it."

Eduard swallowed, summoning the courage to speak back to his master. He seemed to have distracted him from the plan, at least for the moment.

"And that was Prussia's fault?" A stream of sweat rolled down his temple to drip off his chin. "I know he went missing right after the invasion of Vilnius. Germany returned to Berlin alone; nobody saw Prussia again until the meeting in Potsdam—"

"I KNOW what happened!" Russia roared, the dungeon echoing with a deafening _CRACK!_ Now he was the one breathing hard, the air filled with rough pants.

"You presume to lecture me on my own history, boy!? Why do think I tried so hard to gain custody of Germany, why do you think I threw Prussiya down here to rot instead of torturing him to become one of my own!? He is nothing to me, he is completely and utterly _useless,_ a waste of time and space. It was never Prussiya whom I wanted to pay, no. It was that damn German… that— _boy_ … I made Germany mine, he should have been mine, it was my _right_ and those Western bastards let Prussiya steal it from me!"

For once Russia's drunkenness seemed to be an advantage; now he was spilling personal information.

"So that's your plan," Eduard panted, trying to ignore the fire searing in his back. "Tell the world Prussia is dead so that Germany will believe you and suffer for it."

_CRACK!_

"AH-ah!"

"We are not here to discuss my plans, we are here to discuss yours."

Eduard's heart sank; so much for changing the subject. He could hear in Russia's voice that he was losing patience.

"I'll ask again: Why would you want to release Prussiya?"

"I told you the truth," Eduard growled. "He's one of us."

"Ohhh, I see," Russia purred in a tone that mocked Eduard's answer. "So you're _family_ now, is that it? How long did it take you and Latvia to even call Toris by his first name? What was it— _sixty-five_ years?"

Russia's footsteps stopped, then Eduard heard a slight jingle, like that of keys on a ring. He recognized that sound from years ago. It was a cat-of-nine-tails, a short whip with nine strands. The sound came from shards of metal and glass tied to the end of each knot. Eduard's stomach lurched and he curled into himself to keep from vomiting.

_No, no that, I can't take that!_

"Toris would come to me in tears because of the horrible things you said to him. You _hated_ him, Estonia—for treating you like a subordinate, for loving me, then for abandoning you and Latvia." Russia chuckled. "You can't honestly expect me to believe you would forgive a Nazi so easily."

A coarse whistle rang out as the cat-o-nine sailed through the air. There was no way Eduard could have prepared himself for the pain. It felt as though a pair of claws had ripped through his back, tiny pieces of metal latching onto his already bleeding wounds. The sound was so simple—a _whack_ that echoed through the dungeon.

"AAAH! HAH… huhhh… hhh!"

Eduard clenched his teeth so hard, his jaw ached, unable to stop a moan from escaping his lips. His knees lost their strength, and he sank to the ground. His wrists were now slick with sweat, slipping in the shackles.

Russia's voice was high-pitched and cruel, "Have you reconsidered your answer, Little One? All you have to do is tell me the truth, and this pain will stop."

Eduard's sides heaved. Blood streamed down his back in hot rivulets, pooling onto the floor beneath him. A part of him begged for this to end, but that fear dripped with pure hatred for his master.

 _You sick bastard_ _…_ _you think you can get away with hurting my little brother and then I'll just tell you our plans?_

"That _is_ the truth," he spat, teeth bared in a snarl. "Sorry if you don't like it."

Russia made a 'tsk' sound, then with a jerk he pulled back the cat-o-nine. Eduard let out a cry of anguish as the metal ripped off strips of his skin. He heard blood spatter onto the walls and floor, his gasps for air turned into whimpers of pain.

_I can't, I can't take it anymore, please make it stop!_

"Since this seems to be getting nowhere and we are short on time, I'm going to change the rules. There is no need to ask any more questions; you already know what I want. So, I am going to continue until you tell me the truth. Know that only you can end your suffering, Estonia. All it will take is one sentence—only a few seconds, and your agony will end."

Eduard breathed hard through his teeth. His hands clenched into fists as he pulled himself up to his knees again. He spat a glob of saliva onto the floor and wiped his chin on a shoulder. His wounds stretched as he straightened, preparing himself for the blows to come.

_Whack._

His back arched as the claws ripped into him. With horror, Eduard realized each whip would only give the cat-o-nine more loose pieces of flesh to cling to. This time when the whip was pulled back, Eduard was ready for it. He breathed heavily through his nose, but no sound escaped him.

_Here we are again, Russia, just you and me. You want to hear my screams? Well then you're going to be sorely disappointed._

"Trying to be brave, are we? Poor Estonia; that won't last long."

As the cat-o-nine ripped into his back, Eduard clung to any thought that would distract him from the pain. He thought of Raivis, how the boy's innocence had been stripped away by days spent in the dungeon of Russia's Petersburg Estate.

_Whack._

He thought of Toris, trapped between his desire to please Russia and protect his brothers, walking a hair-thin tightrope of deadly consequences.

_Whack._

Eduard's knees gave way and his chest pressed into the sticky surface of the floor. He moaned as he tried to get up again, but his knees slipped in the blood and sweat.

_Whack._

"AAEEIAAH!"

His hands rattled the shackles from the shock, clawing at the wood in a feeble attempt to pull himself out of this hell.

_I can't, I can't do this anymore, please somebody help me!_

And then a scratchy voice in German echoed in response:

_For someone who lives with that psycho, you'd think you'd have better pain tolerance._

All at once, Eduard understood. He understood what this could do to a nation—shackled to a whipping post like a slave, consumed by the darkness where the only clear reality was pain.

_I've been blind for seven years. I forgot that blood was red._

Laying in his own blood, Eduard wondered how it would feel for the hot, sticky liquid oozing from his back became so routine that he thought nothing of it. He remembered the haunted look in Prussia's eyes as he saw himself in the mirror for the first time.

 _There was no way he could have known_ _…_ _he had no idea how broken he was_ _…_

_Whack._

Sweat collected on his bangs, dripping to the floor beneath him. Eduard's entire body ached from his position, arm muscles tight, knees rubbed raw.

 _Seven years,_ he thought, unable to comprehend what that nightmare of an existence would be like. Suddenly the genocide, the secret protocols, the wars no longer mattered. No nation deserved this hell, no matter what crimes they had committed.

_Whack._

The sound seemed far away, as if through a long cavernous tunnel. A scream echoed somewhere, but he could no longer tell if it was his.

With another rip of the cat-o-nine peeling the skin off his back, Eduard felt something inside of him finally give out. He closed his eyes and let his mind grow numb, surrendering to the pain that burned like fire.

 _Prussia,_ he thought as he allowed himself to slip into unconsciousness. _Forgive us_ _…_

* * *

Adrik sat in the office of none other than Semyon Denisovich Ignatev, Minister of State Security.

The walls were grey, a single portrait of Stalin the only decoration. A Soviet flag stood in the corner, and a bust of Lenin joined the various cups of pens that lined the Minister's desk.

Adrik was surprised at the excitement that had gripped MGB headquarters after delivering his investigation report, but he could never have imagined that it would reach the Minister's desk. He knew the discovery of an East German representative was big news… but it seemed there was much more at work here than he anticipated.

"We've received your report," Ignatev said from behind an open file, smoke trailing upwards to lick the ceiling from a cigar perched between his fingers. "And the agency is quite pleased with your performance. However," he dipped the paper down to meet Adrik with dark, wrinkled eyes. "I want to be absolutely certain these allegations are correct before sending them to Comrade Stalin."

Adrik was careful to conceal his surprise. _Comrade Stalin?_

As much as he respected their Great Leader, he hoped he would not be summoned to _his_ desk.

"I reported what he said word-for-word, Comrade."

"And you don't think Lithuania is framing him?"

"I don't see why he would have reason to. Russia initiated an agency-level alert but ordered that it be kept a secret from Comrade Stalin. I think it's obvious he's hiding something."

"That old bat is always hiding something," the Minister growled. "You'd think rehabilitation would win over his loyalty to his own damn government."

Adrik frowned, "Rehabilitation?"

The term referred to prisoners being released from the Gulag. Adrik tried to imagine the nation representative of Russia being sent to one of his own prisons. It didn't make sense—why treat the nation itself as a criminal? Was it even possible for Ivan Zimavich to be an "enemy of the people?"

Ignatev waved an indifferent hand, cigar smoke swirling into loops as he did so. "Oh, just a friendly wives' tale about Comrade Braginsky's history with the NKVD; probably a myth. Just make sure you're at the meeting in an hour; we will not be admitting latecomers."

"Yes, Comrade."

"Nastya!" Ignatev shouted, his voice booming through the office. There was a rapid clack of heels, then a young woman with brown hair pulled into a tight bun leaned into the office door.

"Yes?"

He snapped the folder shut and held it out for her to take. "Have this sent directly to Comrade Stalin's office. I don't care if you have to pull all the pretty hairs from your head to make them listen; tell them this is urgent and that we need a signed response from him tonight. _Tonight,_ do you hear me?"

"Yes, Comrade! Also Beria is on the line."

Again, Adrik hid his shock. _Lavrentiy Pavlovich?_

This was the man who headed the atomic bomb espionage project, the strategist behind the Communist takeover of Europe. As Ignatev reached for the phone on his desk, Adrik couldn't help but lean forward to try and catch the Politburo member's voice on the other end of the line.

"Slooshaiu," the Minister said, and after listening to a question on the other end he spun on his chair. "Of course it's true, I have the escort sitting right here in front of me, just sent off the reports. Yes, to _him._ Yes, I'm absolutely sure! …Of course, Braginsky would have all our heads if he found out. Nyet. …Nyet. Da. Vsio."

Ignatev hung up the phone and let out a sigh. Dark eyes glanced up, and he seemed to catch the uncertainty in Adrik's expression.

"It's about time you agents learned not to be afraid of these nation characters," he said, pausing to blow out a stream of smoke. "They do what we tell them, _we_ are the ones in control. And Braginsky knows that better than any of them."

Adrik found it strange to hear the Minister talk down to Russia. He would understand if he spoke that way of Lithuania, or any of the other republics under the MGB's jurisdiction. But to belittle the head USSR representative himself? Adrik decided it was best to change the subject.

"Comrade, may I ask the purpose of this meeting?"

"The purpose?" Ignatev leaned back in his chair, his expression cold as stone.

"The purpose, Shkarov, is _revenge."_

* * *

HISTORY NOTES

**Semyon Denisovich Ignatev**

Ignatev served as Minister of State Security from 1951 until 1953 when the MGB was replaced by the KGB. He oversaw the agency's massive arrest operations, to include the Doctor's Plot which began in September of 1952 and was revived later in January of 1953. After several Soviet politicians died under Kremlin doctors' watch, a conspiracy arose in which they were accused of undermining Soviet authority. Hundreds were arrested and tortured, and this paranoia regarding doctors would become a later factor of the Politburo's reluctance to call for medical aid when Stalin suffered a stroke.

**Lavrentiy Pavlovich Beria**

Beria was the longest-lived and most influential of Stalin's secret police chiefs. He commanded the NKVD during the war, as well as the Soviet partisan movements on the Eastern front and espionage operations that led to the Soviets' development of the atomic bomb. He was also put in place of the Gulag prison systems, and oversaw purges of the Red Army and NKVD, as well as "dissenters" such as the Poles which were murdered in the Katyn Massacre. Upon Stalin's death, Beria considered himself to be next in line for General Secretary of the USSR. However, due to his long history of atrocities the Politburo didn't trust him, and he was arrested and executed for treason in December of 1953.

**Politburo**

The Politburo was the highest policy-making government authority of the Soviet Union. It was founded in October 1917 during the Russian Revolution, and remained in operation until 1991 when the Soviet Union fell. Politburo members made the biggest policy decisions for the USSR and enjoyed a life of luxury. They could only be elected into the Politburo after serving in the Central Committee.

**Patronymics**

What is considered a middle name in English is called "otchestva" in Russian which stems from the word "otyets", meaning father. In English this is called a patronymic, and it is a person's father's name with a special ending attached to it. Instead of using first and last names, Russians traditionally refer to each other by their first name and patronymic. Ivan’s patronymic takes from General Winter. The Russian word for Winter is "Zima," thus his patronymic would be "Zimavich." When showing respect, Russians traditionally refer to each other by their first names and patronymics.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> "Slooshaiu" means "I'm listening" – yet another very efficient, very Russian way of answering the phone.  
> The NKVD is an earlier version of the MGB which existed from 1934-1936.
> 
> If you want to see the Politburo in action, I recommend watching "The Death of Stalin" directed by Armando Iannucci, which is now on Netflix! Keep in mind that it is a satire, and a satire's job is to contrast the horrific with the lighthearted, thus pointing out just how horrific the subject matter is – in this case, Stalin's regime. It can be jarring at first, but the film knows exactly what it's doing. It takes place in Moscow literally 3 months after the events in DITR, and it reiterates some of the points I'm trying to make; albeit with a very different approach.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	16. Block 11

_Eddy_ _…_ _hey Eddy_ _…_ _Come on, wake up_ _…_

The voice echoed from far away. It sounded familiar… as Eduard was slowly pulled back into reality, he felt a hand on his shoulder.

 _Ah fuck_ _…_ _Eddy, you gotta get up!_

His eyes flew open to be met with pitch blackness. Then it hit him—pain, roaring like fire along his back. His throat burned, arms aching, flames burning in his knees.

" _Ahhh-hhhh! Ahhh_ _…_ _."_

Without thinking Eduard grabbed the closest thing to him. His fingers curled around the collar of a uniform, he could feel the weight of a person pulling against his frantic grip.

"Whoa, hey, it's just me!" Hands folded over his, trying to push him away. "Calm down, Eddy, it's _me!"_

 _Me_ _…_ _who_ _…_ _?_

Eduard's grip loosened and he pressed a palm to the warm skin of someone's face. His fingers shook as they smoothed around a neck to rough against short hair. It wasn't the thick curls of Raivis's hair, or long wisps like Toris's… Eduard's eyes widened as he finally recognized that voice.

" _P_ _…_ _Prussia?"_

The name came out a wheezy rasp, the attempt to speak grating at his throat. He was so confused; what was _Prussia_ doing here?

A warm hand wrapped around his wrist. "The one and only. Now calm the fuck down, I'm trying to help."

Eduard didn't comprehend those words.

_Help?_

Prussia guided his hand to the dungeon floor, then Eduard heard the shuffle of fabric.

"Put your head on this."

Eduard caught whiff of laundry soap. His fingers curled around rough material, and with a start he realized it was Prussia's wadded up uniform jacket.

"I'm going to straighten out your legs. Brace yourself, this is going to hurt like hell."

At first Eduard didn't understand what Prussia meant, until a pair of hands grabbed his ankles and his raw knees began to scrape against the dungeon floor. Eduard pressed his head into the jacket and let out a strangled moan; the movement sent tendrils of fire shooting up his back. It only lasted a few seconds, but that simple action left him trembling and panting from the pain.

"Drink," came the command, and Eduard lifted his head to a cool glass being pressed to his lips. Only for a split-second did he doubt the contents of the cup; he took in loud, needy gulps, the cool liquid sliding down his throat and alleviating the pain. When Prussia pulled the cup away, Eduard grunted in protest.

"Use the rest to take these." Two small objects were pressed into Eduard's hand. Eduard blinked; was this—

"Painkillers," Prussia confirmed, and Eduard's eyes widened. _But how_ _…_ _why is he doing this?_

Eduard took the pills, then Prussia held the glass to his lips again and he downed the rest of the water. It wasn't nearly enough, but at least his throat no longer felt like sandpaper. Eduard lowered his head back onto the jacket. He closed his eyes and breathed in the scent of laundry soap.

He heard Prussia stand up, and the slap of bare feet retreated to the back of the dungeon. Then they neared, and something sloshed in the darkness. A moment later he heard the clink of glass and the hiss of a bottle cap being opened. Eduard let out a huff of disbelief.

_He's drinking the beer I gave him!_

Prussia gulped the liquid for so long, Eduard wondered if he had downed the entire bottle at once. At last he stopped, letting out a satisfied " _Aahh,"_ then set the bottle on the dungeon floor with a _thunk_ that echoed off the walls.

"Gott I needed that," Prussia muttered.

There was a moment of silence during which Eduard decided this couldn't be a dream.

"Did you know Useless smokes?"

It took a moment for Eduard to remember who Useless was. "No."

"Liar. You've lived with the guy for centuries, how could you not know?"

Eduard didn't answer. He was too confused; why was Prussia bringing this up now?

"He gave me this."

Fabric shifted and Prussia placed something in Eduard's hand. It was lightweight, a small cylinder that crumbled in his palm. Eduard sniffed and instantly recognized the smell of tobacco.

 _Toris smokes_ _…_ _and he gave a cigarette to Prussia?_

"He basically told me to go to hell after he gave it to me, so no, we're not _best friends."_ Prussia swirled the contents of the beer bottle. "It's just weird, is all."

For some reason, Eduard wasn't surprised by this. Toris kept so many secrets; may as well add smoker to the list.

"Raivis drinks."

The bottle hit the floor. "Seriously? The kid?"

"We keep—" Eduard broke into coughs, pain shooting up his back as his body convulsed. He tried again, "We keep trying to get him to stop, but he says it's the only way to block out the pain."

"Oh, you mean like _Snow Bastard_ drinks. Well that's just fucked up." Eduard felt the Prussian's gaze on him. "What's your secret? Do you like, deal drugs or something?"

"Russia hasn't… affected me like he has my brothers. I get less attention from him."

"Ah, so you're the lucky one."

Eduard winced; he didn't feel lucky at all.

It was then he realized what felt so different about this exchange—so far, Prussia hadn't insulted him or his brothers even once. Not only that, but their agreement had said nothing about caring for each other. Was there a hidden motive to Prussia's sudden kindness?

"Oh, I brought these. Sorry they're broken, I uh, used them to pick a few locks."

Prussia took the cigarette from Eduard's hand and replaced it with something cold and metal. Eduard instantly recognized them as his glasses. He lifted them to his face, but realized the right hinge had been completely broken off. Eduard was impressed; Prussia picked locks with _that?_ He slipped them over his nose as if expecting his vision to clear, but realized his foolishness when he was met with pitch black.

Prussia chuckled. "That's right, you can't see a damn thing, huh? Once you get the hang of it, it's pretty simple. I can tell where everything is by the echo of my breathing. It's like having a built-in Nacht Jager; pretty badass."

"Nacht Jager?"

"That infrared shit we put on our tank scopes. The Russians had them too, but ours were better. It's a bitch when you're staked out at night; one wrong move and—" Prussia made an explosion sound.

Eduard's glasses slid down his nose as he frowned.

The ex-Nazi was a whirlwind of contradictions. He had worked with the Gestapo, but bore a prisoner tattoo. He went missing for years during the war, but reappeared in Nazi uniform taking full responsibility. And he had spent the entire day asking about his people, but didn't show a drop of concern for the persecuted.

Eduard blinked at the realization: _Prussia is lying._

There was no way all the facets to his carefully crafted image added up. It seemed as if Prussia had built a mask to maintain his confident, brash persona—perhaps one he clung to from his glory days—in order to hide the true effects of the war. But the more time Eduard spent with him, the more he could see its flaws. _Nobody_ walked away from that war unscathed, least of all the very nation who had started it.

He recalled Toris's words when he had first suggested releasing Prussia: _Locked in pitch blackness with no company but his own hatred._

But for all his tough talk, Prussia didn't seem to _hate_ anything… which meant he had been locked up with what? Guilt? Regret? Eduard winced, remembering the sting of leather on his back. Somehow, being shackled to that post had changed things. He felt a new urgency to know Prussia's past, but not for leverage. He wanted to peel back the mask, so that…

_So that what? I can help?_

The thought sounded strange in his head, but Eduard felt this was the right thing to do.

"Prussia," he rasped, voice grating against his throat.

"That's me."

Eduard hesitated, remembering Prussia's earlier rage when he tried to pry for answers. "You went missing during the war, didn't you?"

"'To go missing' implies that I was actually missed by someone. Tell me Eddy: What was _your_ reaction when you learned I wouldn't be returning to Berlin?"

Eduard didn't dare say it out loud: _I was relieved._

He'd heard the horror stories, he saw scars on the other nations from beatings and ruthless interrogations. Eduard remembered how Slovakia had explained it to him:

" _Germany's the one in charge, but Prussia does all the dirty work. The reason why everyone around here is so terrified? It's because of Prussia, not Germany. Germany hurts us because he has to; Prussia hurts us because he thinks it's fun."_

Prussia huffed through his nose, understanding Eduard's silence. "Thought so."

"But… your tattoo…"

Prussia chuckled. "Let me guess, you want to know what the hell happened to me."

"I just want to understand," Eduard said quietly.

There was a long pause, during which Prussia rolled the beer bottle across the floor. The low grainy echo filled the silence, until at last it came to a stop and he let out an explosive sigh.

"Well! I'm already in the middle of an existential crisis, so why the fuck not?"

Eduard blinked in surprise; he hadn't expected Prussia to meet him halfway. Fabric shifted as Prussia rose to his feet. At first Eduard thought he was off to get another bottle of beer, when suddenly a heel dug into his shoulder and fire exploded in his back. Eduard let out a cry of pain and clutched the uniform jacket as his muscles seared from the impact.

" _Aaa-aah!"_

"But I swear to Gott, if you breathe a word of this to _anyone_ I’ll drag your socialist ass down here and whip you myself, you got that?"

Tears sprung from Eduard's eyes, the open wounds on his back shifted with the added weight.

"Yes…"

"I'm serious, if I hear any gossip from your brothers—"

" _Yes_ , just—stop, please!"

Prussia huffed in a way that suggested he didn't care about Eduard's pain in the slightest. His heel lifted from Eduard's back, and Eduard hissed as the scabs ripped off. One moment Prussia was feeding him pain pills, the next he was threatening torture.

_He's just as unpredictable as Russia!_

There was a shift of fabric as Prussia lowered himself to the floor. The dungeon lapsed into silence, and for a moment Eduard was afraid the Prussian would change his mind. At last he said in a low voice,

"Get comfortable, this may take a while. And… just so you know, you're one of the first to hear this.

"If you're expecting some kind of sob story to justify what we did, you're not going to get one. We were conquering Europe; we knew that from the start. Hell, that was the entire _goal_. From the moment I took Ludwig in, all I talked about was World Domination. He wanted it because I wanted it—I had raised him to believe that was the entire purpose of our existence.

The Führer was more than a god to my brother; he was a savior. One moment we were drowning in our own inflation, the next our military was one of the strongest in the world. After being blamed for a war we didn't start, that felt pretty damn good. So we decided to take advantage.

For Ludwig and me it was never about race. All this 'Aryan' bullshit was completely new to us. Even when they started blaming the depression on the Jews, we rolled our eyes. But hey, if this guy's genius came with a little racism, so what? It was a compromise we were willing to make.

We saw the signs forbidding Jews to enter public places. We watched civilians being flushed out of their homes and into ghettos. And whenever Ludwig would get nervous and ask if it was right, I would just laugh and say, 'Right? Who gives a fuck about being 'right?' You want to take over the world, don't you? This is a small price to pay for our reward—let the Führer have his fun, I just want my damn war.'

That's what I called it: 'My war.' I wanted to make those bastards pay for humiliating us, I wanted to dig my heel into each and every one of their self-righteous faces. It felt _good_ to roll over their borders with tanks, it felt _good_ to watch their precious capitals go up in flames.

My favorite part was seeing their faces for the first time, covered in dust and blood. Some were scared, others pissed… and I would grin like a madman and think, 'That's right you poor motherfucker. You're ours now.' Most of them thought they could disobey my brother's orders since he was so young. So I strapped them to a chair and taught them some respect.

Since the day I took in Ludwig, everyone had told me what a horrible big brother I was, how I could never raise him to be a powerful nation. Now they were pressing their faces to the ground and begging him for mercy… and I _loved_ it.

A long time ago, France asked me if I was afraid that my little brother would become too strong—that he would overtake me and defeat me. But I trusted Ludwig enough to know that even if he did surpass me in power, he would use that power to lift me up, not bring me down. That's the kind of brother I raised, and that's why we were so unbeatable. There was never any contest or distrust between us. We were two separate nations, but operated as one entity. Even the most powerful nations couldn't touch us—one was no match for two.

But even though we were equal, the Führer always lavished much more affection on Ludwig than me. He would march Luddy in front of a group of soldiers and say something like, 'This is the perfect picture of a true German citizen, the finest example!'

Of course, me being the proud big brother I was, I thought the Führer loved Luddy so much because of his discipline, his epic battle skills, you know—all the shit I'd taught him and that he'd spent his whole life working towards. I was an obnoxious smart mouth, so of course Hitler wasn't parading _me_ around as the shining German example… and frankly, I didn't care. I thought, great, let Luddy have the spotlight for once, he deserves it.

But because of all the attention, Ludwig was under a lot of pressure to live up to the Führer's expectations. I'll never forget the day we busted up a homosexual bar, and the SS set the dogs loose. There was a lot of screaming, a lot of blood, and we just stood and watched while the officers cracked jokes about fags. I looked over at Ludwig's face, and I saw this raw fear in his eyes. The day after that, for the first time in his life, my brother bought some girls a drink.

If I were to pick out some kind of warning sign that the Führer's 'love' for Ludwig was due to something much more superficial than his abilities, I'd say that would be it. But at the time I was too stupid to realize what was really going on.

In June of '41 we started Operation Barbarossa. The front would be almost two thousand kilometers long, so it was only logical for Ludwig and I to split up. He went with Army Group South headed towards Kiev, and I went with Army Group North towards Leningrad.

Things went pretty well; the Reds were so disorganized they couldn't even get their planes off the ground before we blew them to hell. And after seeing how the Lithuanians fought _with_ us because they hated the Soviets so much, I was feeling pretty damn good about myself. I thought, this war can't last much longer than a year.

The night we secured Vilnius—and I mean, _that_ night—I awoke in my quarters to a sharp pain in my arm. A second later, firm hands held down my arms, legs, torso, even my head. I tried to throw them off, but even with my super strength I couldn't get any leverage. I rolled my head to see this giant hypodermic needle sticking out of my arm, and past it I could make out shadows of more people in uniform, all with their guns pointed to my cot.

‘Fuck' I said, but my mouth wouldn't move. There was another sharp pain, then another, and everything went black.

I awoke to darkness. There was a rattling noise and I bumped up and down; I must have been in the back of some vehicle. A second later I realized I was blindfolded, and a second after that I realized my whole body was strapped down.

I could hear people muttering around me, but I remember being shocked to hear German—until then I had assumed they were Lithuanian partisans or Soviet spies. They kept debating about a 'dosage' and said things like, 'But we need him to walk when we get there' and 'Do you want him to kill us?' Then I felt another sharp pain in my arm, and everything faded.

This went on for a long time—I'd wake up, hear voices, then they'd stick me with those drugs and I'd be out again. Eventually I went longer without getting stuck with the needle, and the vehicle rattled to a stop. I heard shouting from outside, then the creak of opening doors as warm air rushed in.

It's funny, how the first thing I noticed was the smell. It's hard to describe—like a mixture of sewage and mud. Even blindfolded I knew this wasn't a good place to be.

I felt myself being lifted up and carried outside—by this time I figured I was on some kind of stretcher—then they slid the blindfold off my eyes.

And I blinked at the sight before me in total disbelief. No wonder these guys spoke German—they were SS!

'Guys,' I laughed, 'What the hell?'

But they weren't smiling. At least five of them stood around with pistols pointed at me. They ripped off the binds, and when I tried to take a step my entire body crumpled under my weight. I had scarcely hit the ground before they rushed me, hitting me with riding crops and clubs. All I could do was curl up with my hands over my head until one of them kicked me so hard I fell on my side. Now that I was open, they beat my stomach and face. The clubs and whips came down again and again, my bones rattled with bruises and blood soaked into my uniform.

It was minutes before they stopped. I was curled in a fetal position, gasping for air and spitting out blood. An SS agent grabbed me by the arm and draped me over his shoulder. They stuck another needle in my arm, only this time I didn't black out—it just turned my bruised legs to jelly, forcing me to stagger against his weight to walk.

Only then was I able to get a good look at my surroundings, and the first thing I noticed were reddish brick barracks behind a barbed-wire fence. As we neared the gate, I caught sight of a wrought metal sign that read, 'Arbeit macht frei.' I'd seen construction plans and heard rumors about this place—I knew right away I was at Auschwitz.

Ludwig and I knew about the camps, but they had been pitched to us as labor camps. Prisoners were sent there to work, most of them having participated in Polish resistance. Now trains were shipping in Soviet POWs from the Eastern Front. In my mind, the people behind that fence deserved to be there. They were either Russian or Polish, had somehow resisted the Third Reich, and would now be put to work to provide for our war efforts.

The only problem was, these SS bastards somehow thought _I_ was one of them, and were dragging me towards that twisted black sign.

The drug had seriously taken effect, and I couldn't move my mouth to explain what a horrible mistake they had made. We passed through the gate into the bustling crowd of Soviet POWs and shouting SS guards lashing out with clubs. They shoved the prisoners into the mud and kicked them, screaming insults while the POWs shouted in Russian.

The whole thing annoyed me; I _wasn't_ supposed to be here with all these stinking Communists. Wasn't it obvious I was wearing a Nazi uniform?

Somehow the SS guard managed to push me through the ruckus and into a barrack where the prisoners were stripping naked and handed these ugly, blue-and-grey striped uniforms. I took one look at those rags and thought, 'Oh hell, no.' They could strap me down and beat me, even drug me, but I would _not_ let these bastards take my uniform away.

They seemed to anticipate this, because a whole group of SS burst in out of nowhere, shoving past the POWs and shouting for everyone to get out of the way. Someone set out a chair, and the guard dumped me into it. I tried to get up, but the guards came to grab my arms and legs while the first guard ripped open the buttons of my uniform.

Another guy pulled off my boots and unzipped my pants, which fell to my ankles right there in front of the whole damn barrack. They took my jacket with my medals, my patches, all signs of my leadership in the Wehrmacht and allegiance to the Third Reich, and threw it on a pile of rotting Soviet uniforms… as if my lifetime of service and command meant absolutely nothing to them.

I thought they had finished once they managed to get those disgusting pajamas on me— _Gott_ they smelled awful—but then a fist grabbed me by the hair and I heard a distinct clipping sound. A single white tuft drifted into my lap. For one weird moment I thought it was a feather, but the clipping continued, and more pieces fell around me.

So now, not only had my Awesome Nazi uniform been taken away, but my Awesome hair was being shaved off.

And Eddy, I _lost_ it.

I twisted out the guards' grip, then floored the guy in front of me with a punch. A fist cut across my jaw and hands wrestled my arms under control. I managed to spit out in slurred speech, 'I am Gilbert Beilschmidt, High Commander of Army Group North and the nation representative of East Prussia! One word from me, and the Führer will have your sorry asses hanged for treason!'

There was initial surprise, then a collective chuckle among the SS. One of them bent down in front of me. 'Oh yes, _forgive_ us, High Commander,' he jeered, and he picked up tufts of my hair with his black leather gloves and sprinkled them into my lap. 'But I don't think the Führer has any time for pets—little _rabbit.'_ He brushed the tip of my nose with a finger, and the other guards thought that was the most hilarious joke they'd ever heard.

So I sat there with cackling laughter ringing in my ears while more and more of my hair fell to the floor. And I decided that when all of this over, I'd ask the Führer if I could execute these revolting traitors myself.

After they cut my hair, they dumped delousing powder over my head. Another injection, then an SS guard slung my arm over his shoulder. We left the barrack and stepped out into the main part of camp. The whole place was grey—the sky was grey, the ground was grey, the people were grey. We walked past two rows of barracks, then the guard took a right.

We approached a prisoner pushing a wheelbarrow along the path, and for a second we locked gazes. It was the craziest thing—this guy was half-starved, barely had the strength to push a wheelbarrow, had probably lost his family and Gott knows what else—and he had this look of _pity_ in his eyes. Almost as if he were saying, 'I'm sure as hell glad I'm not you.'

As we approached the last barrack, I could see right away it was different from the others. The windows were barred and bricked up halfway on the second story. A walled-in courtyard separated it from the previous barrack, and the windows facing it were boarded up. As the guard led me past the closed iron gate, a shudder ran down my spine—whatever happened in that courtyard, the camp guards didn't want anyone to see it.

They dragged me up concrete steps, and I glanced at the white painted sign hung to the right of the entrance: Block 11. The door opened to a cement hallway lined with doors and single light bulbs hanging from the ceiling. But what stood out to me wasn't the name, or the doors, or the lights—it was the screams. I knew what torture sounded like. I knew what happened behind those walls.

I should have been afraid, but instead I felt relieved. Well this is great, I thought. They're going to interrogate me, maybe pull a few fingernails only to discover they've made a horrible mistake and imprisoned one of their top commanders. After that, it wouldn't take long for one of my fellow officers to notify the Führer, some poor SS bastard would get his ass chewed, and I would leave this disgusting place far behind and never have to think of it again.

So when the SS guard took me down the cement stairs and into the basement, when the screams of pain turned into haunted moans coming from behind steel doors, and when he opened one with a groan, shoved me inside, and the deadbolt echoed in the darkness behind me… I was pretty indifferent to the whole thing. Sure it was creepy as hell, but I knew I'd be out of there in less than a week.

I chuckled to myself, imagining the look on the guards' faces when the Führer showed up with release forms and a migraine. That was the first thing I did in that cell: I _laughed._

The walls were black and scratched up with graffiti. It was big enough for me to pace in, but that was about it. There wasn't a single piece of furniture—not a bed, or a sink, not even a toilet. The only light came from a barred window at the center of the back wall. I remember thinking something was off about the steel door, but at the time I couldn't place what it was. Only when the sunlight dimmed and no footsteps echoed in the hall did I realize: The door didn't have a food slot.

Ok, I thought, so this was just a temporary holding cell. Maybe skip a meal, then they'd come and get me tomorrow.

As the light streamed through my window again, I waited. I paced around the cell, hands on my hips as I glared at the door. My entire body ached from hunger; I hadn't eaten a meal in two days. But then the light faded again. I cursed; how long was this going to take? I waited the next day. And the next. And when the fifth day passed, I began to realize the moans echoing from the prisoners weren't moans of torture—they were moans of _hunger._

This was a problem, because my entire plan to get out of there depended on interaction with the SS guards. But if these bastards weren't going to interrogate me—even worse, if they weren't even bringing me food—how the hell was I supposed to defend myself? My only chance for escape was if an officer had reported my sudden absence the Führer… but there was no telling how long it would take for him to find me.

'HEY!' I shouted, pounding on the door. 'I need an officer down here RIGHT NOW! I'm Gilbert Beilschmidt of East Prussia, and a hell of a lot more loyal to the Third Reich than you driveling idiots, since it seems you can't even read a fucking ARREST WARRANT!'

But nobody came. No matter how much I screamed and shouted and kicked the door, I didn't hear so much as a footstep coming down those stairs.

Looking back now, I can see just how naive I was. I should have known that 'accidents' never happen to us nations. In the summer of '41 I thought I would be making history by pulling off the largest land invasion the world had ever seen. But history had different plans.

It started with brief flashes. I didn't get any emotional feed at first; just the visuals. What felt like scratchy film reels interrupted what I could see through my men on the front—people hurriedly packing their suitcases, shoved into the road with dogs snapping at their heels, clinging to their children in the fray.

But as time went by, those 'interrupting' images grew sharper. I heard voices in languages I couldn't speak—mostly Hebrew and Yiddish, but also Lithuanian, Ukrainian, Belarusian. I couldn't understand their words, but the context made it clear enough—mothers whispering false comforts to their children, neighbors hissing to get out of town, sharp hushes as hot breaths crowded closets.

First only the quieter sounds got through; everything else was muffled. But one night a scream jolted me awake on the floor of my cell. That simple shriek opened a floodgate. Even when I was awake I heard them—sobs, weeping, wailing, cries of terror. I crouched on the floor and pressed my hands to my ears until my head pounded.

'Shut up shut up, shut UP!' I shouted, but nothing would make them go away.

I tried to block the new images and sounds by clinging to my own people. But with each day, it felt as though the East Prussians were slipping further and further out of reach. All the familiar sensations that made me _who I was_ began to fade. The streets of Königsberg, the veins of my heart—nothing but dull, grey outlines. The cool rush of the Baltic Sea against Prussian shores—now muted waves lapping the sand in silence. Traditional music, military marches, art, folktales… all slipping through my fingers like sand. Even the power of my military withered to a dull throb, until trying to draw strength from them felt like groping blindly in the darkness.

While I lost my old identity, a new one was forming. I wasn't just seeing or hearing the images—I was _feeling_ them, down to my core. I grew mad with hunger; all I could think about was food. Fear consumed me—a gnawing in my stomach that made me constantly on the verge of throwing up.

The images changed. Civilians were ordered to dig a ditch and strip naked, then they were lined up and shot. Then the next row would come, use shovels to bury the dead, and do the same. It was a slaughterhouse—arms, legs, heads of hair, just piled up in rows up to ten meters deep. My nostrils filled with the reek of rotting carcasses and sewage running down the streets of ghettos. My chest rattled with wet coughs; the symptoms of a sickness I didn't even have. Even my body began to thin—the muscle wasting away to reveal pale, wrinkled skin over bone.

Almost every day, gunshots rang out from outside my cell. The window opened up to a cement encasing facing the courtyard where the camp guards performed executions.

It got to the point where I was so hungry, and the visions so disturbing, that I would have done anything to be lined up outside and shot, _anything_ to get me out of this hell.

But the funny thing about hell is, it has nine rings… and the devil was just warming up.

* * *

HISTORY NOTES

**Hyperinflation**

After being defeated in WWI, Germany owed a crushing debt to the Allies. In order to pay it, they printed a staggering amount of paper money so the value of the Deutsche Mark plummeted. It got so horrendous that by 1923, the American dollar was worth 4,210,500,000,000 German marks.

**German Recovery**

After being appointed Chancellor in 1933, Hitler began the seemingly impossible task of rescuing Germany from its depression. He began the construction of autobahns, making the process as slow and labor-intensive as possible in order to create jobs. All the supplies needed to build the autobahns were bought from German companies, all of which were subsidized so the companies could hire more workers. Farmers were also given government help, and by 1936 unemployment in Germany was virtually at 0%.

**Persecution of Jews**

The path to the dehumanization of Jews was rapid and drastic. At first Jews were forbidden German citizenship and from having romantic relations with Aryans. Nazi propaganda began encouraging businesses to refuse service to Jews, and Aryan doctors were not allowed to treat them. Next Jews were barred from attending public schools, and ordered to wear a white arm band with a blue Star of David in the center. They couldn't walk on the sidewalk, and if they passed a German officer, they had to bow.

**Ghettos**

Starting in 1939, ghettos were constructed around Europe. Millions of Jews living within a city were forced out of their homes and into a small area that was walled and heavily guarded. Up to 12 people were forced to live in one apartment. Disease was rampant, as plumbing often broke and sewage was dumped into the streets. Although forbidden, Jews still held religious ceremonies and school as they attempted to cling to their way of life. Ghettos served as a holding pin from which Jews were either sent to labor or death camps.

**Persecution of Homosexuals**

As the Nazis' goal was to create a population of Aryan "pure" Germans, homosexuality was considered a threat. In 1934 the Gestapo created "pink lists" of all men engaged in homosexual activities. From 1937 to 1939, they increasingly raided gay meeting places and created networks of informers to identify and arrest suspected homosexuals. Between 1933 and 1945, 5,000-15,000 gay men were imprisoned in concentration camps. Homosexuals were reported to be some of the most abused in the camps, and were also used in human experimentation.

**Auschwitz Concentration Camp**

Now infamous for being a death camp and a symbol of the Holocaust, Auschwitz was first built to house Polish political prisoners. From 1940-1944 camp authorities set up farms, factories, and workshops in the area, using the camp prisoners as slave labor. Conditions were brutal—over half the 23,000 Poles first sent to the camp had died within 20 months. The invasion of the USSR brought Soviet POWs to the camp in 1941, and witnesses have described them being treated even worse than the Poles. (Sources: BBC's _Auschwitz: The Nazis and the Final Solution_ , Auschwitz-Birkenau Museum)

**Block 11**

Block 11 has been described as a "prison within a prison" and is where prisoners of the camp were taken to be punished. Prisoners could be taken to Block 11 for showing resistance, possession of smuggled food or valuables, attempted or suspected assistance in an escape, and violations of camp rules such as theft. The basement was lined with starvation cells, which were used to punish escapees or to hold fellow prisoners hostage until the escapee was found. Adjacent to Block 11 was a courtyard where executions took place. Thousands of people were shot along the "Black Wall" or tortured by being hung from their wrists. (Sources: BBC's _Auschwitz: The Nazis and the Final Solution_ , Auschwitz-Birkenau Museum)

**Killing Pits**

The concept of using gas chambers as a method of exterminating the Jews arose as a solution to the less efficient method of shooting them point-blank. By the time the “Final Solution” was proposed, the majority of the Jewish population in Eastern Europe had already been murdered by the SS Einsatzgruppen and local collaborators. Well-known killing sites include Babi Yar in Ukraine (34,000 killed), the Rumbula Massacre in Latvia (25,000 killed), and Ninth Fort near Kaunas, Lithuania (30,000 killed). (Sources: Documentary _Einsatzgruppen: The Nazi Death Squads,_ Ninth Fort Museum, Mežciems Forest Memorial to the Victims of Nazism in Latvia)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In order to create the effect I want, as well as to maintain respect for Holocaust victims, the History Notes for Ch. 17 can be found at the end of Ch. 18. Thank you everyone so much for reading, and I hope that learning about these events carries the same impact for you as it did for me.


	17. Kleiner Hase — Little Rabbit

At the time, I couldn't tell how long I'd been locked up. It could have been weeks, or months—for all I knew, it could have been years.

But one day, I awoke to a big commotion outside. A deep clang echoed through the walls, the door swung open, and I laid eyes on the first real human face I'd seen since my imprisonment. For a moment I thought it was a dream, until the officer marched in and grabbed me by the arm.

Slowly, the pieces came together in my head: Door open, no guns, no drugs. This was my chance to escape.

I leapt to my feet and took a swing at the officer's face. With a quick spin he lifted his hands to block my punch. Now, you have to understand, no human had ever blocked one of my punches before. But here was this SS officer, no thicker built than any other I'd seen, not even struggling to hold me back.

I was filled with this— _horror_ —because it was then I realized just how thin I had become. The hand gripped in the guard's gloves was bone white, knuckles sticking out like a skeleton. My gaze climbed up an arm zig-zagged with veins, a knobby shoulder, and then down to the sticks that used to be legs.

The officer smirked. 'Don't cry, you're the sole survivor. Aren't you happy?’

There are two things I remember about him saying that. One: I hadn't been aware of crying until he pointed it out. And two: His mocking tone suggested it would have been better for me to die instead of living to see whatever fucked up shit they would do to me now.

Refusing to believe my strength had been reduced to that of a human's, I dug in my heels and tried to twist away. The officer gave a sharp tug and I stumbled forward into the hall. My foot caught on something, and I glanced back to see a pile of corpses stacked by the cell door. Arms and legs protruding from the mound were nothing but wrinkled skin taught over bone—victims of deliberate starvation.

'RAUS!' the officer barked, and shoved me in the direction of the stairs. I was so weak, I nearly lost my balance just from the force of his push, and my muscles screamed in protest as I struggled to hoist my own weight up the staircase.

As we neared the ground floor, the hallways echoed with angry shouts and rapid boot steps. It was then I realized the reason for my sudden release: the guards were clearing out the entire block. The prisoners looked half-starved, some dead, others bore fresh wounds from torture. The guard behind me got lost in the crowd, and I found myself stumbling down cement steps and breathing in outside air for the first time.

One thing I do remember was the temperature. Operation Barbarossa had started in June, in the dead of summer. Now the chill of autumn bit into my skin through the thin fabric of my prison uniform.

Even in overcast, it took a few moments of rapid blinking before my eyes adjusted to the light. I stumbled blindly among the other prisoners, until at last I could survey the scene. A throng of us were pouring out of Block 11 and being shuttled down the path.

My instincts screamed for me to make a run for it, but now that my body was so weak— _how_ had that happened, anyway?—it would be pointless. I forced myself to slow down and think. These were the first steps I had taken out of that cell probably in months—if I made a mistake here, it could ruin any chance of escape.

I craned my neck over the procession of half-dead prisoners stumbling down the path. Maybe the SS was going to demolish Block 11, or renovate it into regular barracks… or the release could be for an inspection, in which case I'd be back in my cell within days. Either way, I had to act _now._

The occasional guard stood on duty along the path, snapping at us to 'hurry up!' and 'move it, you dogs!' I wove through the crowd, trying not to draw attention to myself as I approached one. I stopped short in front of him and snapped into a salute, right arm raised high in the air.

 _'Heil Hitler!_ _’_

The guard blinked at me as a prisoner shoved my back and I swayed forward. My face reddened; a few months ago I would never have dreamed of saluting a soldier of such low rank. But I _needed_ to prove that I was on their side, even as a skeleton draped in these damn traitor's clothes.

'What's this?' the guard sneered. He drew a pistol and touched the cool barrel to my neck. 'A turncoat among rats? You're a little old for Hitlerjugend, shitbag.'

Fine, if he wanted to play the part of drill sergeant, I would play along; anything to keep his attention.

'I am not a shitbag, sir!'

It worked. SS guards weren't used to prisoners approaching them, let alone acting like fellow soldiers.

The guard narrowed his eyes, twisting the gun into my neck. 'Then what the hell are you? Choose your next words carefully, scum.'

'I am Gilbert Beilschmidt of East Prussia, sir! High Commander of Army Group North as appointed by the Führer, lang lebe unser ruhmvoller Führer! I'm here to report a grave mistake, sir! I've been confused with these Communist and Polish shit-bags, sir!'

'Ooh, that's a nice story.’

He pulled the gun from my neck and clocked me across the head with it. I fell hard into the mud, a stream of blood dripping into my eyes.

'Prussian or not, you're still a shitbag. Now get back in line.'

I snarled through my teeth; screw playing nice. My bare feet slipped in the mud as I stood, glaring at him through overgrown bangs.

'Listen here, you insecure little punk. You'd drool at the mouth just to breathe the same _air_ as the Führer, meanwhile I know what fucking brand of _cologne_ he wears. The second he finds out you dipshits can't even bother to open an identification file, the next clean-up of Block 11 will be to wipe you and your trigger-happy friends' brains off the floor. How's that for a story, _sir?'_

The guard seemed so shocked, he didn't know how to respond. But he didn't have to, because another one marched up to us.

'This rat giving you problems?'

'He seems to think he's an assistant of the Führer's,' the first guard said, visibly trying to hide his uneasiness. 'Claims there was a paperwork mistake.'

The second guard grabbed the chest of my uniform and yanked it forward so I stumbled in the mud. Cold eyes flicked to the red triangle sewn to my left breast pocket.

'Political prisoner,' he announced. 'I don't care if this freak is fucking the Führer's sister; he's right where he belongs.' His voice lowered to a deadly whisper as he looked me in eye. 'Listen here, lover boy: if you so much as _breathe_ in the wrong direction between here and your bunk, I'll have your eyeballs gouged out one at a time and put on display at the freak museum.'

Oh, there was _so_ _much_ I wanted to say to that bastard. But I needed more time to think, and spitting out insults would only land me behind bars again.

Slowly, his hand uncurled from the front of my shirt. Before I could react, his fist cut across my jaw and I staggered backwards. I tripped on a prisoner and we landed in a flailing pile of limbs in the mud.

The guard bellowed with laughter as we both scrambled to our feet, the prisoner muttering rapid apologies in Polish.

'HAHAHAHA! I can see what landed him here—useless piece of shit. How about you go practice your salute to your new friend there!’

And then he spat on me, jerked his head for the first guard to follow, and mud squelched as they marched further down the line.

I wiped the blood from my forehead with a sleeve and joined the throng of prisoners walking towards Block 5. By the time I strode through the door to see the barracks filled with sick people, then climbed the stairs to the second floor crammed with hundreds of Soviet POWs, I was _pissed._

'Move,' I ordered, elbowing my way into a bunk and trying to ignore the stench that choked up the barrack. I folded my arms beneath my chin and glared at the muddy soles of the prisoner's boots in front of me.

Things were bad. Now, I know that should have been obvious, but things were _unusually_ bad. Because mix-ups involving nations' identities are typically solved right away. All it takes is government intervention for ill-advised authorities to realize they fucked up. So how was it, that I had been in this damn camp for _months_ with no clear method of escape?

And as I reviewed the steps that brought me here, I began to see patterns. It was as if all possible escape routes had been purposefully cut off. Other nations realizing I'd gone missing? Spring the capture during an invasion. Super strength? Use tranquilizers and a shit-ton of manpower. Worried I would defend myself? Slap a political prisoner patch on my uniform and isolate me from my own men. And the most obvious of them all: Trying to kill an immortal? Starve them to death.

It was there, crammed like a Communist sardine that I finally realized the truth: My capture was no accident. Someone wanted me dead. And whoever it was, they knew I was a nation.

Not only that, but they knew how the camp system worked, had the authority to order the SS to capture me, and had kept it a secret well enough that the Führer hadn't come to kick down my cell door himself. And as I sat there and the sky darkened into night, coughs echoing from downstairs, I racked my brain for anyone— _anyone_ —who might fit that description. But for the life of me, I couldn't come up with a single damn name.

The next morning, I awoke to SS officers screaming at us to get up. We all squirmed out of our bunks and funneled outside. Down the stairs, past the sick people, and back on the path.

As I looked around at the haunted faces of Soviet POWs, at the limping, coughing people, at the SS hauling prisoners on stretchers… I got this weird feeling that all of us were going to be killed.

As we neared Block 11, I was sure of it. I imagined a scene like the ones in my visions: They were going to line us up in the courtyard and shoot us, row by row. Then maybe they'd load our bleeding carcasses onto a truck and dump us in a ditch somewhere.

And I know it sounds crazy, but I was relieved. Finally, FINALLY I had a ticket out of this place. Sure, I might have to claw my way through bodies and dirt, but it wouldn't be the first time a nation had been dumped into a mass grave. All I needed was to get on the other side of that barbed wire—away from the stupid guards, where I could rip off this damn uniform and find a fucking telephone.

At that moment, I heard a sniff next to me. I turned to see a prisoner with his hands pressed to his lips, whispering what sounded like a prayer.

And then the weirdest thing happened. The foreign words clicked into place in my head, and I heard the phrase as clear as day:

'I'm sorry, Tamara, I won't be coming home.’

I blinked, at first thinking maybe he had switched to German. But as he continued to mutter in Polish, I realized there had been no language switch.

I brushed the thought away, shoving my hands into the pockets of my uniform. This guy's ticket out of Auschwitz was death, too—only for him, there would be no waking up.

As we neared Block 11, I noticed something was off. The prisoners weren't being lined up in the courtyard—they were being packed into the block. As we passed the gate, I glanced through the bars to see the courtyard was empty, and sand was piled up against the basement windows.

The crowd of prisoners bottlenecked into a squirming mass, the guards lashing out with their clubs and riding crops. Once I was caught up in the stream, it was too late to turn back. Remember, these weren't just the original prisoners released from the block—I'm talking _hundreds_ of Soviet POWs and sick people, shouting and shoving to get in.

Panic clawed at my throat as I passed through that door, and by the time the crowd shoved me into the basement, I was on the verge of a breakdown. 'No—NO!' I shrieked, but of course my voice was lost in the deafening echoes of hundreds.

An SS guard grabbed me by the arm and threw me in a cell packed with Soviet POWs. More kept coming—finally it was so crammed, my feet barely touched the ground. Everyone shoved each other, shouting in Russian. We had no fucking clue what was going on, and we were _scared._ The door creaked shut, a slam echoed throughout the cell, and everything went pitch black.

Right before the door shut, the guards tossed something into the cell. What sounded like pebbles bounced off the walls—a few of them landed in my hair. There was a moment of general confusion, everyone shoving each other and trying to get space.

But then the screaming started.

It rose up like a beast crying out in agony. Hands reached out from all sides, pulling my hair and clawing at my uniform. For a second I thought, well everyone needs to calm the fuck down or we'll all be crushed in here.

But then it hit me, and being crushed became the least of my worries.

My lungs just ceased to work. I gasped for air, but I got absolutely nothing. I have never tried so hard to breathe in my life. I clawed at the prisoners and my chest heaved and my mouth opened and closed just to get _one drop_ of oxygen—but I got nothing.

A searing pain ripped through my head, like screaming, I-want-to-slam-my-skull-into-a-brick-wall kind of pain. And then it spread to my chest—like a thousand knives sawing through my lungs. I really don't think I could put it into words, how much it hurt.

And it wasn't just the pain—the raw panic and fear radiating from each Russian and Pole in that basement hit me in the chest like a truck.

I've lived through a lot of shit and gotten some pretty impressive battle wounds, I'd even been tortured before. And Eddy, in that cell, with all those screaming people, I wanted to fucking _die._

It could have been minutes, but when you're in that kind of pain, it feels like an eternity. Bodies couldn't even fall because we were packed in so tight. More and more started to go limp, and a big group collapsed all at once. A hand grabbed my wrist, and before I knew it, I was being sucked in like quicksand. I screamed and tried to get out, but the bodies kept shifting. It was like this monster from hell made out of arms and legs. I finally managed to pull myself out, and I staggered to a corner and clawed at the walls while I tried to fucking _breathe._

The gas must have worn off, because eventually I was able to suck some oxygen back into my lungs. I remember hearing the same, gargled gasps echoing around me. There were several of us, up to our knees in corpses, still alive and barely able to breathe. It was pitch black, so we couldn't see each other. All we could do was take in long, wheezy drawn-out breaths as we fought to stay alive, and try not to think about the hands or the feet, or the heads of hair brushing up against our legs.

Suddenly nails dug into the back of my calf, sharp enough to draw blood. From the darkness I heard a strangled wheeze,

_'Why?'_

I tried to cry out in pain, but my throat had been burned raw and I ended up sputtering blood.

 _'Why?'_ the prisoner said again, only then did I realize he was speaking Russian. _'Why don't you save us? It was you, wasn't it? Y_ _ou were sent to save us_ _…_ _'_

With a grunt of pain, I managed to twist my leg away. Nails clawed into my calf as I wriggled out of his reach, shifting through the corpses to try and put distance between us. I slumped against the wall, breaking into coughs which broke into sobs because not once in a thousand years had I felt so out of control.

I think we were in there for at least a day. All I know is that I've never wanted to see an SS guard so badly in my life. But finally, _finally,_ the door creaked open.

A stream of yellow light flooded into the room, glinting off the dead bodies. I saw the shadows of hands and faces sticking up from the floor; it almost made me sick. The man standing in the doorway wore a gas mask; he looked like some kind of mutant insect. We could hear his mechanical breathing—in, out, like a sleeping beast.

It was so bizarre, with all those bodies and that yellow light and inhuman mask. I remember thinking, there's no way this can be real. This all has to be some fucked up nightmare.

I glanced to the few prisoners who were still alive, pools of light reflecting in their eyes as they stared at the door in horror. The officer cursed, then he picked up a can and tossed more pellets into the cell. And then he shut the door.

It started all over again—the screaming, the pain, the fear. Foam bubbled up in my mouth and I groped uselessly at the wall as I slid lower, _lower,_ until muscle and bone popped beneath my weight. Elbows and knees dug into my torso, fingers mashed up against my mouth, stretching my lips until my tongue slicked over dirt-caked nails and I tasted the salt of sweat.

And then I died.

When I awoke, I was paralyzed; I could barely turn my head sideways. Someone grabbed my ankles and slid me across the floor and out of the cell. Arms hooked around mine to lift me up, and my head fell back to look this poor prisoner in the eyes.

He dropped me with a scream and bounded up the stairs. He came back with an SS officer wearing a gas mask. 'Which one?' the officer asked, and the prisoner pointed a shaking finger at me. The officer came over, looked down on me with that freaky mask, and nudged me with a boot. In a moment of morbid humor, I winked at him.

The officer took a startled step backwards. He ran up the stairs and came back with more officers, who were all yelling at each other to figure out what the hell to do with me. It seemed someone had produced some paperwork—fucking _finally_ —and the first officer shouted for a stretcher.

They hoisted me onto it and carried me up the stairs. I tilted my head to see prisoners pulling hundreds of bodies out of the cells. The same POWs I had shared a barrack with, the same sick people that had kept me up all night—they were all dragged into the hallway and piled up like yesterday's trash. The SS carried me outside, and I saw a prisoner pushing a cart—a fucking _cart_ —just filled with these bodies.

As we neared the camp entrance I heard a low rumble, like what you might hear in a factory. I gagged on a scent reminiscent of the battlefield. And I looked at the sky to see a black column of smoke twisting into the clouds.

In that moment, with my skeletal arms swinging on the stretcher as I blinked up at the sky, it hit me.

Bullets weren't enough. No… the pits from my visions, filled with bodies… there were too many _people._ The SS needed a faster way, a better way. A place to herd them like cattle in a stockyard, then send them off for the slaughter. A place where they could come from far and wide, accessible by rail line.

And as the words 'Arbeit macht frei' passed over me, I realized the horror I had just experienced in Block 11 was nothing more than an experiment. It had been right in front of my face the entire time—the signs, the laws, the ghettos, the dogs, the mass shootings, the fucking _stars_ for Christ's sake…

Jews. That is what Auschwitz, and perhaps other camps like it, were going to be turned into: Death factories for Jews.

Suddenly it all made sense. The reason for my capture, the visions, even the language switches—it was all so that I would realize what the SS were planning. It had been one of the worst experiences in my life, but at least now I _knew_ the kind of sick shit the SS were up to. And now that they had my paperwork, they would send me back to Berlin where I could tell the Führer what was going on, and he and the other bigwigs would put a stop to this insanity.

That's what the Russian had meant by 'You were meant to save us,' right?

Just then someone grabbed me by the hair and yanked my head up. I was powerless to protest as they tied strips of fabric over my eyes and mouth. The stretcher lifted, and I could smell the musty interior of a truck. The door rattled shut with a CLANG, and with the rumble of an engine we were off.

Dread spread through my chest like spilled ink. If the SS had finally dug out my identification papers, why were they still treating me like a prisoner? There was only one explanation: whoever wanted me dead was still in charge.

If that were the case, this mystery asshole just found out his master plan of starvation and poison gas had failed. I'd seen too much; they knew I would report everything to the Führer. So either they were going to come up with another creative way to try and kill me, or lock me up somewhere to rot.

All the closure I'd felt moments ago evaporated with that single realization. I wanted to climb out of this hell _so badly,_ my chest ached—just to get out of this disgusting uniform, to breathe fresh air and walk without being prodded in the back with a pistol. I wanted a good beer, a bath, and to see Luddy's smile again. But those simple things felt so far away, and by the time the truck rattled to a stop I was in near hysterics.

They ripped off the blindfold, leaving me gagged. I had regained enough strength to stand, but barely had the chance as the guards manhandled me out of the truck and into a local police station. When we passed the front desk, my heart leapt into my throat at the sight of a telephone. I twisted and screamed at the officer, but the guards slammed me against a wall and handcuffed my hands behind my back.

They forced me to a row of temporary holding cells, opened the barred door with an echoing creak, and shoved me in. I scrambled to my knees and crawled across the floor to peer through the bars. I needed a guard, a prisoner, _anyone_ to talk to… but even the other cells were vacant. So I just slumped in the corner, glowering at the bars as I waited for what would come next.

It was a few hours before the hall echoed with footsteps. A man in an SS uniform stepped in front of my cell, the guy from the desk following close behind. His hair was slicked back with too much oil, eyes beady and pinched.

'Is that him?’

His voice held a nasal tone to it that sent my skin crawling. He peered in at me, like I was some sort of animal at a zoo. 'Fascinating, it looks almost exactly like a human.'

I shot him a glare that could have melted him on the spot, but his only response was to rub the underside of his nose with a leather glove.

'Why is it so thin?'

'They all look like that, sir.'

'Well that won't do at all. I want my subjects to be healthy when I operate.'

'Yes, sir.'

The man looked me straight in the eyes. 'You… thing. You survived a gassing, did you not?'

That pissed me off; did this pervert expect me to answer while gagged? I thought the words loud enough I hoped he could hear them:

_Fuck you._

The man seemed satisfied, as if I had given him exactly the answer he wanted. 'Yes, I'll definitely take it. Have it brought to my lab by noon tomorrow, and with prisoner identification. I know a few of my colleagues who would be very interested in this…' His creepy eyes looked me up and down before he finished, '…Specimen.'

'Yes, doctor.'

Footsteps faded as the two men returned to the lobby. A few minutes later the first officer came back with more SS guards. One unlocked the door, then two strode in and forced me to my knees as they removed the handcuffs and ripped the gag off my face.

I knew if I made too much of a scene they would shoot me, so instead of fighting back I tried to explain myself.

'Look, I don't know who's masterminding this damn operation, but whoever it is they are committing _treason,_ do you understand? I am Gilbert Beilschmidt, High Commander of Army Group North— ‘

The officers ignored me, forcing me to my feet and out into the hallway.

'If I could just make one phone call to the Führer, maybe then he'd spare your sorry asses when all of this is over. Think of your families, your kids! Do _you_ want to be shoveled into the next ash pile!?'

They shoved me into a supply room. The guards grabbed my arm and pushed up my sleeve, holding it down onto a small wooden table. The first officer took a black object from the shelf. He balanced the instrument between his fingers and leaned over my arm. At first I thought it was a pen… until I noticed the sharp needle attached to the end.

'No,' I gasped. I tried to twist away, but the SS held me down with no effort. Panic clawed at my throat; _where was my super strength!?_

'No, no, NO, this is a mistake! I-I'm Gilbert Beilschmidt, my brother is Ludwig Beilschmidt, I—I-I'm a _Prussian!'_

The boy holding the tattoo instrument looked up with an amused expression.

'You're not even human; the name is just a disguise to hide what you really are.’

Then with a sharp sting, he took the needle and rammed it into my skin.

This is where I lost it. Nation tattoos always mean something, and I sure as hell did NOT want a fucking prisoner number on my arm for the next thousand years. Not only that, but the officer's comment pissed me off. It was because of 'what I was' that they shouldn't be treating me like this!

Pain shot up my arm as the officer carved the tattoo into my skin. I didn't have much time—if appealing to my connection with the Führer didn't work, I would try another approach.

'That's right,' I growled through clenched teeth. My eyes watered from the pain but I ignored it. 'It is just a disguise. My real name is East Prussia, formerly the Kingdom of Prussia, and before that, the Teutonic Order. The Third Reich wouldn't even _exist_ if it weren't for me, I've built this empire with a thousand years of hard work and spilled blood— ‘

The officer twisted the needle in my arm and I let out a cry of pain, clenching my fist as I fell lower onto the table. I breathed hard through my teeth, refusing to look at the digits forming on my skin.

'I knew Germany before he was even a country, I dedicated my entire life to raising him up to be a powerful nation. Without me, you couldn't even call yourselves Germans—my blood runs through your veins, boy, I OWN you!'

'Shut him up,' the officer growled, and a guard clamped a hand around my mouth. I twisted and screamed and bit, but nothing I did could throw him off. My vision became blurry and I couldn't make out the numbers on my arm. I remember thinking,

_This can't be happening to me. I am the Awesome Prussia, this is NOT happening to me!_

At last the incessant stabbing stopped, and officer lifted the pen as if just having completed a masterpiece. 'Put him back in the cell,' he ordered, not even looking at me. 'And make sure he is fed well tonight.’

The soldiers dragged me away, my shouts of protest muffled by the leather of the guard's glove. They threw me into the cell and slammed the door shut. I leapt to my feet and reached through the bars, screaming after them:

'I've done more for your country that Hitler and Bismarck put together! This is treason, you hear me!? TREASON!’

But they just kept walking, and never looked back.

My knees grew weak and I collapsed onto the cell floor. I slowly turned over my arm to see the bluish ink swelling beneath inflamed skin. Six digits had been carved into me, sloppy and unevenly spaced with the officer's hurried handwriting:

_63956._

I stared with wide eyes, unable to believe it. This… _thing_ on an arm bone-thin from starvation… it wasn't me. Crouched in a cell in a half-rotted prison uniform with maddened hunger eating away at my gut… _it wasn't me._

And yet… at the same time, it had to be. Because as nations, we know that nothing happens to us by chance. Surely, I had thought, starvation was enough. Surely, the visions, the language switches, and being gassed in a cell full of prisoners was _enough._

But sitting there staring at the tattoo, my entire body shook as I realized this was bigger than me.

If I told you what the doctors did to me in those labs, you probably wouldn't believe me. I was the perfect test subject: I had a body that reacted to injury and infection the same as a human's, but it was impossible for me to die. Those sadists cut me up and put me back together in any way they could think of, killing me and bringing me back to life, taking notes on their clipboards while I convulsed and screamed.

As time went on, the experiments moved away from morbid curiosity, instead focusing on a set of specific tests. Apparently these psychos were testing for war conditions like freezing cold water, high altitudes, and gangrene to name a few.

After one doctor had his fun with me, he would ship me off to the next. I even heard talk of a _waiting_ list they had going for all the sickos who wanted to poke around my insides.

Those bastards loved me so much, they even gave me a nickname: _Kleiner Hase_ —Little Rabbit.

But as much as I hated them, the fact remained that no matter how sick and demented their experiments were, the doctors could always desensitize themselves and justify their crimes by claiming I was not of the same species.

But I thought, surely even then it must eat at their consciences to some degree. Because as far as they knew, the only thing separating me from a human was the fact that I couldn't die. I still had the exact same anatomy as a human. I had the same facial expressions, I spoke German, I bled like a human and felt pain like a human.

But what got to me was how calm they were—holding casual conversations about their personal lives around the operating table. Never once did I see a flash of conviction or pity, as if performing experiments on a being that looked and acted exactly like their own kind was completely normal.

But there was a reason for their indifference. And it was one that, even after all the atrocities I had witnessed, I could have never imagined.

One morning I was in my cell, shivering and coughing up blood from tuberculosis shots. I heard a shuffle of footsteps coming from the hallway, but they sounded different than the heavy footfalls of the doctors. I dragged myself to the door and stood on shaky legs, hands curled around the bars as I peered out.

And my heart just stopped.

Because there, being led by a doctor through the lab halls, were _children._

There were about ten of them, all in the same blue-grey striped uniform I'd been forced to wear at Auschwitz. I blinked, rubbed my eyes, and gaped out my cell window again—trying to convince myself this was just another vision, or hallucination from my fever.

But as these kids passed my cell door and I saw the haunted look in their eyes, there was no denying it. This wasn't a vision of strangers getting shot thousands of miles away. They were here, in this hallway—if my window had been low enough, I could have reached out and touched them.

The doctor locked each one of them in a separate cell. After the last door clanged shut he said, 'Now you just wait here, the Good Uncle will come to pay you a visit soon.’

I threw up.

Right there, in my cell, I vomited all over the floor. Because suddenly I understood why the doctors had no qualms about experimenting on a being so similar to a human: They had already been experimenting on members of their own kind.

Fabric shuffled, and the face of a little girl peered through the barred opening that separated our cells. She sat with her chin resting on her knuckles, chestnut brown eyes looking up at me.

'Are you okay?' she asked in Polish.

I understood every word. This girl was from Warsaw, and her name was Sylwia. I couldn't tell you why I knew that, I just knew.

Somehow I managed a smile, though I imagine it looked hella creepy with bile dripping from my mouth.

'No,' I said. 'I'm sick.'

'Is that why you're here to see the doctors?'

Hah. Funny.

'Yes,' I lied.

'Do you want a candy? I was going to save it for my sister, but I think you need it more than she does.'

A small hand stuck through the bars, and a silver wrapper threw fractals of light across the cell floor. I don't know what shocked me more—the realization that it had been months since I'd laid eyes on a piece of candy, or the fact that this Jewish girl was offering it to me, even though she probably hadn’t seen one, either.

I bent down and took the wrapper from her palm, savoring every crinkle as I opened it. It was caramel, and the best fucking thing that had happened to me since June.

'My sister is really sick,' Sylwia said, propping her head up with her elbows. 'The doctors are going to make her better. Did you know that we're twins?'

'No,' I lied again. Her sister's name was Klara, older by two minutes. They were ten years old.

How the hell did I know that?

Slywia was a great kid. She told stories of her life in Warsaw, the cakes her grandmother baked and the games of make-believe she played with the kids on the block. It was comforting to hear of the outside world, even if her stories were of a carefree reality that had existed before the war.

But it wasn't long before she didn't have much to say. The next day when Sylwia came back from the labs, she was white as a sheet.

'Shit, what happened to you?'

'They took blood,' she said. 'They said it will help Klara get better.'

A week later, Klara died.

All I could do was lean against my cell wall and listen to the quiet sniffles coming from the next cell. They were _too_ quiet—the tears of someone who had already lost so much.

The next day, the doctors came for Sylwia.

They gave her a candy.

She didn't come back.

You'd think after everything I saw—the shootings, the gassing, the experiments—that I'd be able to admit something was seriously wrong with our government. That the speeches, the racist comments and jokes I had smiled at or ignored, the tiny warnings I had thought meaningless had evolved into a ravenous beast with an appetite for human lives.

But despite all the evidence, something inside me refused to give in. I kept making excuses, desperate to find loopholes to justify what we had done. Maybe these atrocities were orchestrated by the SS alone, and the main branches of government didn't know about it. Maybe there had been a coup during the invasion, and some psycho was sitting at the Führer's desk in Berlin.

Because, if our main body of government was responsible for all of this, that meant _I_ was responsible for all this. It meant all those 'compromises' I had been willing to make in the name of World Domination had led to devastating consequences.

And most of all, it meant that I would have to choose between my lifelong dream and saving innocent lives. That was a choice I was far from willing to make, and I would fight it tooth and nail for as long as the disjointed clues would let me.

But I could only stay in denial for so long.

One day I was strapped to the table prepped for the next experiment, when I heard a familiar voice echo from the hallway. The door swung open and the doctor walked in with an officer.

As his face came into view, I couldn't believe it. This man was none other than Joachim von Ribbentrop, foreign minister of Germany. This guy had brokered the Pact of Steel between the Axis and negotiated our peace agreement with the Soviet Union—we had worked closely together on countless diplomatic trips. He was always snapping at me to act more mature and even requested that I not attend diplomatic meetings—there was no way he wouldn't recognize me.

I tried shouting his name, but of course it was useless past the stupid gag tightened over my mouth. So I just had to lay there while the doctor bragged about his wondrous 'Little Rabbit' and 'scientific advancement,' Ribbentrop nodding politely although he seemed indifferent to the whole thing.

Finally the doctor left the room. Ribbentrop waited a moment until the door closed, then he walked over to my tableside. His eyes scanned the length of my body, resting for a moment where I knew the tattoo was etched into my arm.

My breaths were hot and rapid against the leather strap as I mentally screamed, _Get me the fuck out of here!_

But the expression on Ribbentrop's face wasn't of horror or anger—he just looked mildly surprised.

'So it's true,' he breathed. 'When the Führer told me you were here, I didn't believe him—I told him I'd have to see it for myself.’

My breath hitched—the Führer knew I was here? Did that mean someone had finally reported what these sickos had been doing to me? I wanted to be relieved at those words, to believe Ribbentrop was here to rescue me… but something seemed off about his tone of voice. He was too… calm, just as the doctors had been.

'I must admit, at first I barely recognized you. I didn't even think it was possible for a nation to be reduced to such a state. Of course, had the Führer consulted _me,_ I would have told him it was useless to try and kill you.’

Now I was just confused; what the hell what he talking about?

Ribbentrop let out a great sigh, and for the first time I saw a spark of pity in those eyes. 'You might have made my job more difficult, but you were an excellent soldier—possibly the best in the entire army.’

 _Fuck yeah I am,_ I thought, glaring daggers at him. _Which is why I should be out there fighting and not strapped to this table like a fucking lab rat!_

I didn't understand; why wasn't he helping me? Why was he just standing there looking at me like I was some kind of animal at the zoo?

There was a long moment of silence as Ribbentrop held me in his gaze, until at last he seemed to come to some sort of conclusion. And I will never forget his next words:

'It's such a shame you had to be an albino.'

Then he turned on his heel, strode out of the room, and shut the door behind him without looking back.


	18. Untermensch — Subhuman Creature

Since the day I was captured, I had been searching for some kind of explanation. But as I lay there and stared at the ceiling in absolute shock, I was forced to acknowledge the impossible:

The singular cause of my months of excruciating pain was something as simple as the color of my hair.

It was also the reason the Führer loved Ludwig so much.

_But the Führer didn't know that Ludwig was gay._

Panic seized my chest; I pulled at the straps, the latches rattling on the operating table.

_I have to get out, I have to warn him! He can't end up like me, he can’t…_

A sharp pain cut into my wrists, blood smearing on the leather. I gave up and collapsed onto the table, breath hot against the gag.

 _No_ _…_ _Luddy_ _…_ _please_ _…_

My eyes stung with tears, salty liquid sliding down my face and into my shaved hairline.

Oh, _god._

What if we had decided to use one of the existing states to create the German Confederation, instead of Holy Rome? Hannover had green eyes. Bavaria's skin was darker. Württemberg, Baden, Hesse… none of them fit Hitler's 'perfect Germany' description.

We had picked Holy Rome because we thought it would be fairer to create a new nation, instead of giving more power to an existing state. His body hadn't rotted yet, so the answer to our problem seemed to be lying right in front of us.

But even then, what if Holy Rome had been albino, like me? Or had a darker complexion, or a nose a little too wide for the Nazis' liking? What would have happened to my little brother then?

When Holy Rome died, I had begged for a second chance. This time, I promised, _this time_ I'll raise my brother right. I'll pour myself into him, I'll teach him everything I know. I won't let a single foreign power lay a finger him, I'll turn him into the most successful nation the continent has ever seen.

For over a century I worked Ludwig to the bone training him to be powerful. He listened to every word I said, struggling to stretch his legs enough to match my footsteps as he trailed behind in my shadow. And on the rare occasion when he did voice opposition—like the day he asked me to call off the ghettos—I brushed it off. To the point where, watching dogs rip men into shreds in a Berlin bar, Ludwig didn't breathe a word. He had just watched—silent, scared. And then he came home pretending to be someone else in order to fulfill the dream both Hitler and I had projected onto him.

Footsteps thudded through the floor and the door swung open. The doctor's lips curled into an amused smile, 'Why are you crying, Little Rabbit?'

When they dragged me back to my cell I collapsed onto my knees and wept.

 _I_ had built this.

And now it would consume me, Ludwig, and Europe's entire 'Undesirable' population without even blinking.

And regardless of whether the Nazis won or lost, history would never, _ever_ let the German people forget it.

What had started as some freakish nightmare became my everyday life. I watched the doctors escort a new batch of children into the labs, and I felt nothing. I saw a box with a postage stamp full of body parts, and I wasn't surprised or disgusted. I was tormented by visions by night, experimented on by day.

I started to lose myself; my chest ached with the flood of a million names and faces—their horror and their loss and their absolute helplessness.

But one crisp December morning, my life as a lab rat ended with the explosion of a gunshot.

_BANG!_

Flecks of blood sprayed onto my face. The doctor's head bounced off the table and he slumped to the ground with a _thump._ I barely processed this before a figure stepped forward, blocking the light above me. I squinted past the blood dripping into my eyes as I tried to make out who had just shot the doctor dead.

A forest green Wehrmacht uniform stretched beneath broad muscular shoulders. The bright lights of the lab produced a glow outlining slicked back golden-blond hair, a few loose strands fallen in front of a smooth face sheen with sweat. Two eyes the color of glacier melt stared at me in absolute horror as a deep voice breathed,

'Mein Gott.'

Ludwig was quick to regain his composure; he only stood there a moment before ripping the leather straps from my body with almost no effort at all. I remember the firm grip of his hands as he lifted me off the table and over his shoulder, the leather of his gloves pressing into my bare skin as my hands roughed over the wool of his jacket.

I looked down to see the doctor lying on the floor with a bullet hole in the back of his head, blood spreading in a dark pool beneath him. My fists curled around the fabric of my brother's uniform.

_This is real._

Without a word, Ludwig stepped over the doctor's bleeding body and into the hall. He walked in combat stance, free hand ready to use the pistol on any poor bastard who got in his way. Sweat soaked through his uniform, his chest heaved with breaths… I wondered how many men he had killed before getting to me.

I glanced up to see faces crowding the cell windows. Dark eyes peered out, small hands curling around the bars.

'Luddy,' I rasped. My voice was barely audible, a grinding grate with disuse.

'Don't worry, Bruder, I'm getting us out of here.'

'Luddy, there are children here.'

I waited for Ludwig to leap to action, to kick down every door and lead the children to freedom. But my brother stood still in the hallway.

'It would take too much time. The SS have already called in reinforcements and I can't save you with that many of them.'

'Nein…'

The children stood on their tiptoes to watch me go. Adam, from Kraków. Ilona, from Budapest. The Karpowicz twins, Emil and Jozef from Poznań. Their eyes were empty—not asking anything, not begging to be rescued.

My voice cracked with urgency, 'Nein, we have to save them…'

'I'm sorry, Bruder. I can't.'

And I knew there was no use in arguing with him.

I used what little strength I had left to push myself up off of Ludwig's back, watching their haunted faces grow smaller until he turned the corner and they vanished from my sight.

When Ludwig stepped outside, I understood what he had meant by reinforcements. At least a dozen SS officers lay scattered in bloodstained snow—some shot, others with broken arms or smashed-in heads.

Another officer sprinted around the corner, and my brother swung around and shot him right between the eyes.

'Hold onto me,' he grunted, and broke into a run.

I clung to his sweaty uniform as my frail body bounced against his shoulder, the cold air biting into my skin as trees whizzed past us. Ludwig pushed through a hedge of bushes, the cool sting of ice melting against my skin. As we broke out, I saw a small car parked in the snow. He checked to make sure the coast was clear, then crouched to the ground so I could slide off his shoulder.

I half fell into the snow, fists clutching his uniform for balance. A million questions burned in his eyes, but he remained silent as he carefully placed me in the back of the car. He pulled a heavy coat from trunk and draped it over my bony shoulders. Then he pushed a civilian's hat over my head and wrapped a woolen scarf around my neck to hide my face.

'Don't look out the window, keep your eyes forward.'

I nodded, still unable to believe this was real.

Ludwig slammed the door shut, ducked into the driver's seat, and hit the gas.

As the car spun out of the snow and rumbled onto the road, I couldn't help but look back at the lab. A van screeched into the parking lot, dozens of SS officers leapt off and stormed inside. They were so close, I could hear their angry shouts through the car window.

But Ludwig turned left onto the road, and the lab and SS officers swung out of sight. Eventually the sound of their shouts faded out, and the only noise was the rumble of the engine and the crunch of gravel beneath tires.

An enormous weight lifted off of my shoulders, and all at once I was more exhausted than I had ever been in my life.

I must have fallen asleep right away, because I woke up in a bed with pillows and sheets. I looked over… and there was my brother, kneeled at the bedside with my hand in his. His shoulders shook, tears smearing against my skin as he whispered,

'Forgive me… forgive me… I'm so _so_ sorry… Oh Gott, I'm sorry…'

I lifted a bony hand and placed it on his head, my fingers sinking in smooth gelled hair. His gaze jerked up, wide and bloodshot. And I said in a rasped, grainy voice:

'Thank you.'

After a lifetime of serving me and doing almost everything I asked, that was probably the first time I had ever thanked him.

The apology should have been reversed. _I_ was the one who had ruined both of our lives; it was _my_ fault our country was being led by a racist regime which would slaughter millions and forever taint German legacy.

This was… difficult for Ludwig to understand.

A week later, he left for the Front.

Only then did I finally accept the impossible: I now represented the Undesirables, and it was my duty to save as many lives as possible.

I think I went two months without sleep. No amount of showers could rinse the stench of death from my hair, no amount of food could satisfy my hunger… but I didn't care. After six months of experiencing my peoples' pain, at last I had the power to _do_ something about it.

I raided our closets and stuffed bags full of Nazi uniforms, then hitchhiked my way out of Berlin. I needed people—crazy people, angry people, people who had lost everything and would be willing to risk everything to undo the evils that had ruined their lives.

I used my tattoo to gain the partisans' trust all across Europe. We developed communication lines, secret codes, hideouts for future rescued Jews, and chains of transportation. I worked like a madman; as soon as one partisan chain was set up I'd vanish to create one in the next city over.

To my surprise, many of these chains already existed—it was simply my role to spin the webs between them and set up standard systems. I may not have been a nation on paper, but I had an army, we had a strategy, and by February my chess pieces were in place.

Get these people _off_ the trains before they even set foot in a camp—that was our goal. The rail lines themselves had become the blood pumping through my veins; I knew arrival times, guard changes, relocation dates. While military decisions had always been hampered with bickering bureaucracy, the partisans now followed my seemingly random orders without question. Like a frantic bloodhound, I led them from train to train.

But even after intercepting a shipment, getting the Jews to safety was a problem. There could be over a hundred of them packed into one car, many already dead. They would stagger out into the snow, confused, scared, lost… while we gunned down SS and screamed at them to get the hell onto the trucks. We'd pass out new civilians’ clothes to replace the rags these people wore, then shuttle them to safe houses.

Mothers would hug their children and burst into tears, the elderly wept with gratitude. Men threw down the civilians' clothes and asked for fake uniforms so they could join us. Boys as young as ten years old trailed behind me, insisting over and over that 'I know how to shoot! Take we with you, mister!' And when I'd spin on my heel and lecture them on throwing away their lives, they would say their entire family was dead, and they had nowhere else to go.

The SS learned to fear us. One conductor stopped the train the second he spotted us on the horizon. Another squad dropped their weapons and fled without firing a shot. Everyone cheered that day; it was one of the rare occasions we left the tracks without a single casualty.

But… no matter how many cattle cars we rerouted, or how many ghettos we infiltrated… it wasn't enough. Because for every rescued train, there was another one arriving at Auschwitz. Every family I hid meant there was less room for the next.

And as the killings became more systematic, as gas chambers were installed all across Europe and people were murdered by the tens of thousands _each day_ , I felt more and more helpless against this wave of evil. Even with all of my abilities, I was just one nation; I could only be in one place at a time.

The irony seemed intentionally cruel: My entire purpose was to rescue the Jews, and yet this task was impossible.

I think in the end, it was the partisans who kept me going. No supernatural force gave them strength, they had no 'special abilities' to make things easier, and they weren't immortal. Every day they risked their lives, simply because it was the right thing to do. Even in the face of impossibility and danger, they never stopped believing that what we were doing made a difference—that _every single life_ was worth saving.

I think as nations, we get too caught up in numbers. We lose people by the thousands and never think twice about it… at least, I never did. It's so hard to value life when you're surrounded by so much death, because it's easier to ignore it and seal off your conscience so you don't get hurt.

But it was in those brief moments—dancing polka under the stars in a wheat field, celebrating a boy's tenth birthday the day after we rescued him from a train, pressing my face to the forehead of a young woman who had gotten shot on our way out of Budapest, while she died with a smile and thanked me for giving her a second chance—that I learned to cherish and protect the beautiful glint of light that is a human life.

By 1944, it was clear the war was drawing to a close. The Soviets began pushing Westward, and as they did, they uncovered the Nazi's darkest secret: Concentration camps. For the first time I had the opportunity to reach the people I had failed to save; I knew thousands of them were in desperate need of help. So I stole a uniform and used my newly-acquired Russian to pose as a Soviet soldier.

Now, I had been seeing all of these camps in my visions. I knew what they would look like, what was going on there.

But the Soviets didn’t.

You should have seen the confusion, the horror, the disgust and absolute disbelief on their faces as they realized what they had discovered. Some men threw up, others just sat down and cried. I'm talking grown Russian soldiers, hardened by years of unspeakable war, just… openly weeping.

They weren't the only ones—I was shocked, too. Seeing these places in my nightmares was nothing compared to walking through them. The stench was unbearable, a mixture of burned flesh and human excrement that hung in the air like a cloud of death. Skeletons staggered through the camps like ghosts, their eyes empty of all humanity. Bodies were everywhere, some half-burned, others crumpled on the ground… as we cleared out the bunkers, we even found corpses lying among the living.

Everywhere lay traces of mass murder: mountains of men's suits, children's clothes, shoes, gold watches and glasses. We found… an entire room full of burlap sacks stuffed with hair. _Human hair._

These were the trains we had missed, the ghetto in the next town over from the one we infiltrated, the family I might have been able to save had I arrived a day earlier. I would look at the empty eyes and burnt corpses and think,

 _I could have saved you. If I had just known your name, your town, which ghetto you were in_ _…_ _I could have saved you. Why didn't I save you?_

Sometimes it was so overwhelming, I left the camps just to cry. But then I would have to suck it up, go back into the stench, and help the Soviets tend to these lost shells of human beings.

Thanks to my abilities, I could tell if the survivors had family left alive. If they were close by, I would borrow a Soviet vehicle and drive them over to the next camp. Watching the cries of joy, the tears, skeletal arms clinging to one another… in those tiny moments, I felt that maybe, just maybe I was making a difference.

But most days I had to look a sole survivor in the eyes and say, 'I hope you find your wife.' I fucking lied, because I couldn't bear the shame of admitting yet _another_ life I had failed to save.

At each camp we liberated, I knelt in the mud and pressed my head to the earth as I whispered, 'Forgive me. Forgive me. Forgive me' over and over. But that's the thing about the dead: They can't forgive, no matter how much you beg them.

The murderers I had seen in my visions weren't just Nazis—they were Latvians, Lithuanians, Estonians, Ukrainians. Yes, the Germans. But that nationality was only a bullet on the list.

This— _tragedy_ , this horror that had gripped Europe—could have never happened without everyone's participation. It would have been impossible, without the Hungarians or Slovaks who just stood on the train platforms and watched cattle cars roll out of their cities without saying a word. It would not have been impossible, without the Belarusians who shouted insults at the Jews as they were funneled into the ghetto.

Sure I recruited partisans to save the Jews, but I'm talking maybe a few dozen. Where the fuck was everyone else? What was going through these gentiles' heads when they smelled the stench of burning flesh, or when thick black smoke choked out the sun… Or when they turned away from the trains with hundreds of hands reaching out for water? Even the Americans could see the camps from their planes—any pilot with a drop of compassion would have bombed the shit out of that place, or at least the rail lines!

It took a gassing at Auschwitz and months of experimentation for me to realize the Nazis' evils. But that's because I _was_ a Nazi, I had worked my whole life for this war! But not you, not any of the other fuckers who were locked in our house in Berlin. You _knew_ the Nazis were up to no good, you must have seen what I saw in my visions.

So why didn't you _do_ something? Why was I alone out there? Why didn't I meet a single other nation until I walked through those meeting room doors in '45? All of you, with your iron-pressed uniforms, your fresh bandages, your talk about politics and spheres of influence. I remember taking my seat by Ludwig, looking around at everyone's face and thinking,

_Don't you know? Don't you realize what's been happening this entire time? How are you all here, and not out there trying to help these people recover from this war?_

And it was in that moment when I realized what selfish, power-hungry creatures we really are. And I looked around the meeting room and thought,

_You know what will happen right after this? Another fucking war._

And for the first time in my life, that word made me feel sick.

Each of us in that room had been partially responsible for the mass killings, but since my brother had started the war, he was the only one who didn't have the option of throwing off that guilt.

Yes, I started the war too, but I had this entire sob story under my belt to help clear my name. I could have pleaded innocent—I could have stood up and told everyone my entire story. I could have shown them the tattoo on my arm and the ribs protruding from my torso, I could make their eyes widen with the horrors I had seen.

And maybe they would scoff and say I deserved it, maybe they would think the whole thing was a hoax… But maybe, they would believe me. Maybe they would realize I had repented and had worked myself to the bone for the last three years trying to undo my own mistakes. And maybe, I would have been exempt from punishment.

Maybe if I had told everyone the truth that day, I wouldn't even be sitting here right now.

But I couldn't. Because telling the truth meant Ludwig would shoulder the entire blame of the war alone. He had no sob story, no shiny path of redemption to use as an appeal. And although every single nation in that room should have stood up and admitted to their own crimes against the Jews, I knew nobody was going to. Instead everyone rushed to play victim, directing all of their hate at my brother.

And as I sat there and watched his hopeless eyes refusing to meet any of their gazes, I decided I could never tell the truth. For Ludwig, I would become a Nazi again. I would bear the hate and accusations of every nation who felt wronged—they would forever spit on me and look at me with disgusted expressions of 'How could you' and 'You got what you deserved.'

But I swore that no matter how well I played the part, I would _never_ apologize… because I refuse to grovel at the feet of the guilty.

My punishment went far beyond mere insults and dirty looks. I still remember when England said those words: 'East Prussia is hereby and henceforth dissolved.' It should have been a terrible shock; I should have been struck with grief at the loss of my country. But I remember scratching the tattoo on my arm and thinking,

_I was no longer East Prussia anyways._

Even when they announced Russia would be taking custody of one of us, I knew it had to be me. Not a single nation in that room—not the Allies, and not even Russia with his whips and taunts—could bring me down any lower than what I had become.

When I stood up in front of everyone and told Russia he could kill me, I was serious. There was no coming back from what I had seen, what I had been turned into… that decision was easy to make. The hard part—and I mean fucking _hard_ —was having to look Ludwig in the face and promise him I would stay alive.

For seven years I've been reliving the horrors of the war. Every night I wake up in a camp, or a gas chamber, or on the run from the SS. In between my visions Russia would come down here and try to kill me. But after about a year, I think we both realized that was never going to happen.

I decided the only reason for my survival was some kind of extended punishment. I would suffer for eternity in this blackness, forced to watch my people die while Russia used me as his personal punching bag.

But… then here you come, vomiting all over my floor and rattling off nonsense about some country called GDR. Until now I've thought the whole thing was a scam, because I _know_ what it feels like to switch representations. Where are the visions? Why can't I see or feel anything outside of my own damn memories?

I think yesterday Latvia said something about being afraid. At the time that accusation seemed ridiculous… but maybe the kid was onto something.

My whole life I've always known exactly what I wanted. First it was World Domination, then to raise Luddy, then to save the Jews.

But now… after everything you've said, after what Russia has told me, and Lithuania… I don't know. I don't fucking know anymore. I mean, you're telling me I'm supposed to believe that I'm a nation again? Being a nation means I'll be responsible for millions of lives, that I'll have to make decisions for them and protect them.

And I can't—I can't fucking do that! I mean, look what happened the last time! And if I'm not working towards World Domination, what the fuck am I working towards? If I'm just a satellite crony who takes orders from these Soviet bastards, what does that make me?

What does that make _you?_ I mean Gott, what are _you_ even working towards?"

There was a long stretch of silence before Eduard realized that Prussia expected an answer.

He was so stunned from hearing Prussia’s story, it took some effort to focus. He repeated the question in his head:

_What are you even working towards?_

Prussia was essentially asking Eduard's purpose as a subordinate. No, more than that—the purpose of any subordinate. It made sense why he would ask such a question, as a nation who had lived almost his entire life as an invader or superpower.

 _Toris would come to me in tears because of the horrible things you said to him. You hated him, Estonia_ _—_ _for treating you like a subordinate, for loving me, then for abandoning you and Latvia._

Eduard shuddered at the memory of Russia's words. What could he have said all those years ago to help Toris understand how to have purpose even after losing so much?

When he spoke, his voice was low and grainy:

"After moving to Saint Petersburg in 1795, Toris acted as if the whole thing were temporary—as if his 'subordinate' status was just a brief mistake in his country's history.

Although equal in political status, Raivis and I didn't know how to treat him. After all, we were just territories ruled by a foreign aristocracy. We had no flag, or national anthem—not even a sense of a nationality to fight for. How could we possibly relate to Toris, with his rich cultural history and succession of Grand Dukes?

So we kept distant. We rarely talked at all, and certainly never knew him as more than Raivis's former master.

As punishment for Toris's second escape in 1864, Russia locked him in the dungeon for a week. The day of his release, he returned to our room, and the silence was so thick I could taste it. Toris slunk out like a dog with his tail between his legs, and we could hear him crying even past the spray of shower water.

Raivis only looked up for a second before scribbling another line of poetry, and I curled a lip at the distraction as I continued reading my book. Why should we feel sorry for Lithuania, after he had abandoned us to Russia's wrath not once but _twice?_

The next day was an important one: France was coming. As he was Russia's idol, it was essential that every detail be perfect—from our uniform cords, to the few French phrases we had memorized, to above all, the food. Raivis and I had been working tirelessly to prepare the mansion for our honored guest, aware that one wrong move would send Russia into a flying rage.

But as the three of us stood at attention in the hall, the door to Russia's office flew open.

'Which one of you chose the wine?' he asked with a smile, and Raivis stuttered out his reply. Apparently he had mixed up the colors; hors d'oeuvres went with dry rosé, not red. Russia didn't care that the bottles looked exactly the same; he pulled back his hand, and a _slap_ echoed through the hall.

I closed my eyes and flinched, but when I opened them, it took a moment to process what I was seeing.

Raivis was squished against the wall. Standing in front of him, with a red mark flush on his cheek, was Lithuania.

I was so stunned, I don't think I fully registered what had happened until after Russia hissed 'I'll deal with you later' and vanished back into the office. That was the first time Toris had _ever_ defended us from Russia—Raivis and I were in such shock, we didn't even know what to say.

That afternoon, Russia whipped Toris in the dungeon. I didn't think much of it, but it seemed to be bothering Raivis.

'Maybe we shouldn't be so mad at him for escaping when we didn't give him a reason to stay,' he said to me as we washed dishes together.

I grew irritated, 'We didn't give him a reason to stay because we don't owe him one.'

After a pause Raivis said, 'I'm just so tired of hating. You and I hate Lithuania. Russia hates us. Russia and Lithuania hate each other. It's just hate, hate, hate. I mean, what do any of us gain from it, anyway?'

'Justice,' I said, and Raivis grew quiet.

After finishing the dishes, I returned to our room while Raivis disappeared somewhere. Staggered steps echoed in the hallway, and I looked up from my book to see Raivis supporting a bandaged Lithuania. I watched in a confused silence as he helped Lithuania into bed, and the next morning when Toris greeted me with a cheerful 'Good morning!' I demanded to know what was going on.

Raivis shrugged, 'Nothing really, just had a real conversation with him and told him we could be friends.'

My mouth fell open. 'You— _what?'_

'You should have seen him last night, Eduard! He was sitting in the bathtub trying to bandage his wounds all by himself, and when I asked if he was okay he said 'I'm fine.' Lithuania is _not_ fine, he hasn't been 'fine' since 1795!'

Again this frustrated me; why should we reach out to Toris after he had hurt us? But I could tell Raivis wasn't going to back down.

That afternoon I walked in on Raivis and Toris sitting at the dining table together. Raivis called me over, and I walked up behind them to see they were comparing Latvian and Lithuanian vocabulary. Raivis seemed ecstatic, explaining to me how the languages were similar.

And then Toris did something else that shocked me: He asked me to teach him Estonian. It was the first time he had shown any interest in my language or culture.

While I scribbled out some basic phrases on Toris's growing list of Latvian words, Raivis disappeared into our room and returned carrying stacks of newspapers. 'Look at these! They're the first Latvian and Estonian newspapers EVER to be published! We write political stuff and opinion columns and poetry… for the first time, our people are actually _creating_ literature!'

Lithuania's eyes widened as he scanned the foreign languages and photos spread out before him. 'I… had no idea this was so important to you two.'

Then Raivis shocked everyone by inviting Toris to the Latvian printing press. Raivis and I had _never_ invited Toris to go anywhere with us; it was another first. Of course Toris accepted the offer, and the two left within the hour.

Twenty minutes later, Russia threw open my office door: 'Where in God's name have those idiots run off to!?' He had received orders on short notice to attend a ball at the Winter Palace, but with Raivis and Toris still in town, we would be late.

Russia was _furious._

By the time a carriage pulled up to the estate, a thunderstorm was pouring torrential rains. Russia had been pacing in the foyer waiting for their return; the second they reached the door, he threw it open and struck Raivis to the ground. Toris shouted at Russia to stop, which only worsened his temper. He dragged Toris to the dungeon, whipped him again, and left him shackled there while I yelled at Raivis to hurry up and get in the damn carriage before Russia ripped our limbs off.

'But what about Lithuania!?' Raivis shouted over a thunderclap that spooked the horses.

'He's not our problem!' I shouted back, and practically shoved him up the carriage step.

Russia followed close behind, slamming the door shut and barking a command at the coachman. Raivis took a breath and turned to Russia, but I kicked him in the shin. He crossed his arms and slouched in his seat, glaring out the curtains to watch the rain pelt against the windows.

One of the few good things about Winter Palace events was that Russia usually forgot about us.

Raivis and I stood behind him like the shadows we were ordered to be, smiling and nodding at guests as they came in shaking the water from their umbrellas.

'Do you think Lithuania is okay?' Raivis whispered.

My shoulders sagged with a sigh. 'I still don't get why you're so determined to be nice to him.'

'He's different than before. He doesn't act like a superpower anymore, you know? He's actually interested in my history and culture, like we're equals. And he _listens,_ Eduard. I think if we give him a chance, he can really change.'

But I wasn't convinced. 'And what happens when he tries to run away again; you're just going to welcome him back with open arms? You can pretend to be Lithuania's friend all you want, but he'll turn his back on you the second he gets the chance.'

'Then… maybe being friends isn't enough.'

At the time, I had no idea what Raivis meant by that.

After we returned from the ball, Russia showed no signs of releasing Toris. Around midnight, we heard a weak voice at our door:

'L… Latvia…'

Raivis leapt up to pull it open, and Toris staggered into the room. Blood dripped to the floor in wet splatters, Raivis gasped as Toris fell into his chest.

'Eduard, help me!' he cried, and I rushed to sling Toris's arm over my shoulder. Toris was so weak, his ankles dragged across the floor as we helped him to the bathroom. I lowered him to the floor while Raivis dove into the cabinets for medical supplies.

The bathroom settled into silence as Raivis dabbed a wet rag at Toris's wounds. And then out of the blue Raivis said:

'You know, I've been thinking… maybe we could all be brothers.'

Toris and I took in a sharp gasp. Raivis seemed oblivious to the tense atmosphere, as he continued pressing the rag to Toris's back.

'Raivis, can I talk to you for a moment?'

'Later, first I have to—'

 _'Now,'_ I growled, and he reluctantly threw the rag on the floor. I pulled him into the hallway and tried to convince him that Lithuania could never be our brother, that he would abandon us regardless of how we labelled our relationship. But I'll never forget what Raivis said to me:

'This isn't about getting even, this is about doing what's right. You're free to make your own choice about that, Eduard. But I've already made mine.'

Then Raivis spun on his heel, marched back into the bathroom, and told Toris he was our brother. And I stood alone in that hallway, absolutely stunned as I listened to the loud, rattling sobs of a nation who had been hiding his pain for sixty-five years.

Since that day, Toris has supported our countries more than any other nation I know.

He met with our writers at the printing press and helped with distribution. He taught us diplomatic theory and what it takes to lead an independent government. And when the Russian Empire collapsed and we saw the opportunity to break free, he supported us as equals.

In accepting his position as a subordinate, Toris was able to see past his own national interest. Instead of focusing his energy on himself, he focused on protecting us. And without his support—without _all_ of us working together—independence would have been nothing more than a childish fantasy.

If you were to ask me if I would rather be independent than a subordinate, of course the answer is yes.

But over the years I have seen a constant similarity in superpowers that subordinates lack: A desperate loneliness. No superpower has been without exception—Sweden, Poland, Russia… even you and Germany. All of you had endless power at your disposal, and yet at the same time you are terrified of losing it. Your 'friends' and 'family' are only pretending to be so out of fear, and the second they get a chance they will betray you.

I would never wish my situation on any nation, but at least I can say with absolute confidence that I have two brothers who love me and who will lay down their very lives to protect me.

So to answer your question, I would say that as subordinates we work to protect each other. Sometimes we screw up, and one of us gets hurt. But as long as we stay together, the opportunity for independence will arise. When that day comes, we'll walk out of this mansion as equals, as brothers, and as friends.

And I believe that holds more value than all the power and influence in the world."

There was a long period of silence, in which Eduard couldn't even hear Prussia breathe. Finally a low voice said,

"Gilbert."

"What?"

"My friends always called me Gilbert. But I guess since they were only friends 'out of fear,' that never really meant anything, ja?"

"It would mean something now."

"Would it?"

"To me, yes."

There was another long pause, then the dungeon echoed with a sniff. Prussia's voice cracked as he said,

"Cool."

* * *

HISTORY NOTES

Chapter 17

**"Freak" Museum**

The Old New Synagogue in Prague is the oldest synagogue in Europe, and the only one to survive Nazi occupation. This is because the Nazis planned to use the building as a museum of the extinguished Jewish race. Anatomy displays would have provided a scientific exhibit proving why the Jews were racially inferior to Aryans. (Source: Old New Synagogue, Prague)

**First Gassing Experiment**

In September of 1941, the first gassing using Zyklon B was performed in Block 11 at Auschwitz. The prisoners being held in the block were evacuated, and the next day 250 sick inmates and 600 Soviet POWs were selected for execution and packed into the basement cells. Sand was piled on the windows to prevent the gas from escaping. Immediately before closing and sealing the doors, SS guards threw Zyklon B into the cells. The next morning, gas mask-protected SS unlocked the cell doors and found that not all victims were dead. More Zyklon B was thrown into the cells and the doors were closed again, and that afternoon it was confirmed all the prisoners had died. One group of inmates equipped with gas masks carried the corpses from the basement to the ground floor, a second undressed them, a third carried the bodies to the courtyard, and a fourth loaded them onto carts. The experiment proved that Zyklon B was an efficient way of executing mass murder. (Source: BBC's _Auschwitz: The Nazis and the Final Solution,_ Auschwitz-Birkenau Memorial and Museum)

**Zyklon B**

What is now infamous as the killing method used to exterminate Jews began as a simple disinfectant. Prison uniforms would be sealed in a special room, and the pellets would be scattered over them to kill any pests. Karl Fritzsch, the commandant's deputy at Auschwitz, came up with the idea of testing the poison gas on humans. The active ingredient in Zyklon B was hydrogen cyanide, which blocks cells' ability to absorb oxygen. Witnesses have reported victims taking as long as eight minutes to die, fighting for their lives and even smashing their heads into blunt objects to end the pain. One SS doctor reported that corpses were found with "their skin discolored pink with red and green spots… foaming at their mouths, or bleeding from their ears."

**The Final Solution**

Gilbert's realization as he is being carried out of the camp is ahead of his time. The Final Solution wasn't officially decided until January of 1942 at the Wannsee Conference. In the autumn of 1941, Jews were still being kept in ghettos across Europe while the Einsatzgruppen murdered Jews on the Eastern Front. The Nazis were still considering sterilization or deportation as possible solutions to the "Jewish Problem." Construction on Auschwitz II, the larger section of the camp equipped with gas chambers, didn't begin until October of 1941, and the first transport of prisoners arrived in February of 1942.

**Prison Tattoos**

Auschwitz was the only camp site where prisoners received identification tattoos. The practice began in the autumn of 1941 with the arrival of Soviet POWs. Only those selected for work were issued serial numbers, not those selected for execution. (This is why Gilbert did not receive a tattoo upon arrival at the camp, since the intention was to kill him.) Originally, a metal stamp holding interchangeable numbers made up of needles was used. Later a single-needle device was introduced, and tattoos were given on the outer side of the left forearm. Children used in Auschwitz lab experiments also received these identification tattoos.

**Nazi Human Experimentation**

Early Nazi human experimentation focused on sterilization methods, in order to prevent Jews from having children. As doctors gained easy access to test subjects through the deportation of Jews to concentration camps, they began performing experiments designed to provide data about certain war conditions and diseases. However, the "science" of these experiments was fundamentally flawed, as the hypotheses were based on the fact that Jews, Slavs, and other races deemed as "Undesirable" were genetically inferior to Aryans. Thus, if a disease or war condition affected a Jew in one way, it was assumed that a German would last longer. Thus the Nazi "experiments" held little scientific value and were purely an excuse for the Nazi doctors to inflict horrible suffering on their test subjects. These tests ranged from experiments involving diseases, in which the victims were injected and then monitored as they suffered from the disease, to freezing water experiments on hypothermia, to comparative autopsies on Jewish twins, often children. (Note: Mengele's twin experiments at Auschwitz didn't begin until 1943)

**Joachim von Ribbentrop**

Ribbentrop served as Foreign Minister of Nazi Germany from 1938 until 1945. He played a key role both in the signing of the Pact of Steel with Fascist Italy, as well as the Molotov-Ribbentrop pact which assigned the Baltic States to the Soviet "sphere of influence" after the invasion of Poland in 1939. After the war, Ribbentrop was defendant at the Nuremberg Trials. He was convicted of crimes against peace, deliberately planning a war of aggression, war crimes, and crimes against humanity. He was executed by hanging in October of 1946.

Chapter 18

**Creation of Germany**

Years ago I read a fanmade doushinji about the creation of Germany, in which Prussia went to the ruins of a chapel to collect Holy Rome's body. While Holy Rome himself was dead, his body had not disappeared, and so Prussia and the German leaders used it to create who we now know to be Ludwig Beilschmidt. It is my headcanon that while Ludwig inherited HRE's body, he is in no way the same person, nor does he possess any of HRE's memories. Ludwig was "born" in 1815 with the creation of the German Confederation, a union of 39 German states which all had their own nation reps.

**German Nationalism**

Gilbert's comments on German nationalism are inspired by all of my German exchange friends. I have had many honest, enlightening conversations with German students commenting on how Germany can't celebrate national pride, or take pride in its successes due to their history.

**Baltic Relations**

During my time abroad, I had the incredible opportunity to visit Vilnius for the 100th anniversary of the restoration of Lithuanian independence. I got off the bus with no wifi and a small rolling suitcase, and found myself packed in a huge crowd of Lithuanians at the center of town. A screen showed the ceremony taking place in front of the Presidential Palace. First the Lithuanian flag was raised, and the choir sang the Lithuanian national anthem.

Then, to my absolute shock, they raised the _Latvian_ and _Estonian_ flags and sang the _Latvian_ and _Estonian_ national anthems. At the time I had already written the first draft of chapter 18, but now I was seeing proof of Eduard's words with my own eyes. I know that Latvian, Lithuanian, and Estonian relations are not perfect, but there is something truly special between these three countries that I feel the rest of the world could learn from, in a time where it seems a lot easier to spit on your neighbor than to love them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These last three chapters were inspired by movies, documentaries, museums, memorials, and Holocaust survivor interviews. My goal in this story was to discuss the Holocaust and racism itself, rather than a broader narrative of German history. I've received some comments about the significance of Gilbert's albinism. Please note this was meant as an ALLEGORY for how the Nazis saw other people groups. With the canon Hetalia cast, I had limited options for how to portray this hatred. A special thanks also goes out my brother, who served as a second beta for Gilbert's chapters and even came up with a few lines. 
> 
> For photographs from my trip to the Auschwitz-Birkenau Museum, click [HERE](https://chessna2.tumblr.com/post/181022184902/holocaust-extra-materials)
> 
> It's been a year since I published this story, during which the "Black Lives Matter" movement has surged in America. Much of my inspiration for covering the Holocaust in such detail were the issues of racism I had seen growing up in the American South. If the last year has taught me anything, it's that racism is still alive and thriving today, and we have to work hard to challenge racist ideas and dismantle racist policies to make sure something like this can never happen again. 
> 
> Thanks for reading, and feel free to leave your thoughts in the comments.


	19. Sviestmaizes — Sandwiches

Toris awoke with a jolt. 

His vision swam before him as he tried to get his bearings. The first thing he noticed was an aching pain in his neck and back, but this was soon explained as he realized he'd fallen asleep in a chair. A grainy moan escaped his throat; he was still in uniform, thick fabric sticking to his skin from the cold sweat of nightmares.

Toris squinted and rubbed his temples. _I feel disgusting… why did I fall asleep on the chair?_

He glanced up to see a thin form lying on the bed, blond curls peeking out from a bloodstained bandage. In a rapid flood of images, Toris remembered what had happened the day before.

_Raivis… yesterday… Eduard… and the office!_

Toris staggered to his feet so fast, he grew dizzy and collapsed back onto the chair. He bent over and tangled his hands in his hair.

"The _office!"_

He had intended to do something about it last night, or at least come up with a plan on how to explain the scattered files to his master… But it seemed he had fallen asleep at Raivis's side, and now Ivan could already be awake, what if he found the files, what if he didn't believe him!?

_Thump, thump, thump._

Toris's head shot up with a gasp.

_No… no, no, no!_

But the sound was unmistakable—Ivan was coming down the staircase.

"Shit," Toris cursed, balling his hair into fists. " _Shit!"_

What if he had been wrong about Ivan playing mind games and the deal was truly off? His master could burst through that door with blood splattered onto his coat, whip in hand ready to drag the next victim to join Eduard… Toris leapt to his feet and stood legs spread, fists clenched in front of his brother's bed.

_He can take me, but I'll be damned if he lays another finger on Raivis._

Three sharp knocks rapped on the door.

"Litva? Are you awake?"

The Russian's voice was high-pitched and cheerful, which didn't tell Toris anything about his mood. 

He struggled to find his voice, "Yes sir."

"Oh good, I want to talk to you about something. I am coming in now, da?"

The door creaked open and Ivan stepped into the room.

Toris winced in expectation of blood… but not a speck soiled his master's figure. Ivan's hair was clean and neatly combed, fresh scarf wrapped around his neck with the scent of cologne wafting into the room. 

The Russian greeted Toris with a warm smile. "Good morning, Litva."

"Good morning."

Toris's voice came out barely a whisper. He couldn't believe how calm and collected his master appeared after what he must have done to Eduard last night. Of course… this in itself could be the reason for Ivan's good mood. Violence always put him at ease.

But the cheerful morning mask dissolved as Ivan's gaze lingered on him.

Toris bit back a scoff, _What, Ivan, you thought I'd be happy to see you after spilling my brothers' blood?_

The Russian shifted his gaze to the bed, almost searching for an excuse to look away. "Latvia appears to be doing better, that is good." 

Toris's insides coiled at the irony of that statement.

Ivan stepped forward, and Toris could only watch as his master crossed the room and bent over the boy. He swallowed a gasp as huge gloved hands reached towards blond curls. Ivan worked a finger beneath the bandage and pulled it back to peer at the split skin.

"Sloppy stitchwork," he muttered. "That explains the blood in the bathroom."

Ivan lowered himself into the chair, gradually as though he was tired and needed a rest, and what better place to take a break than right here in the servants' quarters? Toris nearly choked as his master pulled a vodka bottle from his coat and unscrewed the cap. He bit his tongue, _hard,_ rolling it around between his teeth as he watched Ivan throw back the bottle and take hearty gulps.

A fire roared in Toris's gut, one that he would be helpless to smother if Ivan dared touch Raivis again, self-preservation be damned.

Ivan finished his drink with a satisfied, _"Ahh,"_ slamming the bottle on the side table with such force, the books jumped off the surface. All, except for one— _Crime and Punishment_ , the very book under which Ivan had set the bottle. Ivan shifted in the chair, throwing a heavy arm over its back and crossing a boot over one knee. Violet eyes locked onto his, and Toris didn't dare look away.

"Since I seemed to have missed some details, I thought I would ask you: What happened after you returned from Moscow?"

It took a moment for Toris to find his voice. Seeing Ivan sitting so close to his unconscious brother, not to mention _Feliks's letter beneath the bottle_ sent his skin crawling.

"I-I'm very sorry, sir. When I got home, Prussia was already—"

"In my office," Ivan finished. His sharp gaze demanded more detail.

"Yes. But I stopped him right away, sir, he didn't touch a single document after I came home."

"What was he was looking for?"

"I… didn't ask."

"And where is he now?"

"In his room, chained and locked as you instructed, sir."

"And if I walked down the hallway right now and checked his room, he would be there, da?"

"Yes, sir."

Ivan's gaze bore into him, deciding whether or not to believe Toris. Then his shoulders slumped as if a great tension had been released.

"So it worked."

"…sir?"

"I have successfully frightened you into obeying me again."

That sentence hung in the air between them.

Ivan leaned his head back, silver bangs falling away from his forehead. His neck was exposed just enough for Toris to make out the pink flesh of scar tissue peeking out from above the scarf.

"You even managed to return the knife. Well done."

_What is he talking about? I didn't—_

"I'm sure you've guessed by now the deal was never off; I was only testing you. You broke your end, so I broke mine. Now we are even." Ivan straightened in the chair, his expression contorting into a snarl. "This is what happens when you get idiot ideas to work behind my back. It's been over a decade since I've tasted Estonian blood and I had to watch it flow into the shower drain last night."

Toris sputtered; was Ivan suggesting this was _his_ fault? "You said I had until this morning, and you _lied—"_

"I am not the liar in this room, Litva."

The room temperature dropped.

Toris's lips parted, and his chest rose with a gasp of realization: _Oh my god. He's in love with me._

He had been avoiding that truth ever since he first recognized the signs in Ivan's office. It was impossible; Ivan _couldn't_ love him. Not after Toris had made it clear over and over that he wanted no part in Ivan's twisted version of what "love" meant. Not after he screamed, and twisted, and bit, and cried and begged Ivan to let him go, to _stop touching me, please…_

After he ran away twice trying to flee from it, after he pressed a pistol to Ivan's temple and hissed at him to 'crawl back to your precious Revolution,' after he looked him in the eye in 1940 and said I will NEVER obey you, and after pitching their relationship as nothing but a deal that doubled as a stress outlet…

And Ivan _loved_ him?

_Why? What do you see in me—what has possessed you to think I could give you anything you don't already have? You idiot, don't you see we can never go back to the way things were!?_

Toris wanted to march across the room, slap his master across the face and scream that he'd had it wrong for seven years and not once did he lie about his feelings. But Ivan was giving him a second chance, and being honest would swing a pickaxe into the very, _very_ thin ice he stood on.

Ivan pushed himself to his feet. He swiped the vodka bottle off the table and strode past Toris, the scent of cologne wafting after him. "I will be working in my office today. Your brothers can rest, but we will be having a family dinner tonight and I want both of them there. When Prussiya wakes up, tell him to scrub his filthy blood off my carpet."

"Yes, sir," Toris whispered.

Ivan hovered at the door, as if there was more he wanted to say. But the words died on his lips, and he shouldered out and pulled it shut behind him with a _click._

Toris's breathing escalated into rapid pants. He stormed to his bed, balled his hand around a pillow and hurled it at the wall as hard as he could. The _whap_ as it smacked against the cement wasn't nearly satisfying enough.

_I want a sword._

Yes, that's exactly what he needed right now. The weight in his arms, the _whish_ of a blade slicing through air. The clang and slither of metal-on-metal and scrape of dirt beneath flawless footwork. Toris wanted to _fight_ somebody, in a battle he could actually win.

He fell on the mattress and spread trembling fingers over his face. "It's happening, Feliks," he laughed breathlessly, digging his palms into his eye sockets. "I'm going to lose my mind in this damn house."

Without thinking, Toris reached for the book and slipped out the folded piece of paper from the dust jacket. He already knew the scratchy Polish handwriting by heart, but he needed to read it again:

_Dear Liet,_

_In your last letter you asked me to write you stupid happy things, so here's your stupid happy dose for the day:_

_We've almost finished rebuilding Warsaw Old Town! All the buildings are up and it looks great, almost like it did before the war. Every morning I walk down the streets, and it looks like a watercolor painting with the bright colors of the buildings against the snow._

_Yesterday I was recruited by some kids to make a snow fort, and we ran around the square throwing snowballs at each other until a government official recognized me and yelled at me until his face turned red! HA!_

_Did you know the oldest kid was five years old? She doesn't even remember the war._

_Come visit soon,  
_ _Feliks_

Toris closed his eyes and took a breath. He could almost hear it: The crunch of boots on snow, the scattered laughter of children and _smack_ of snowballs breaking into powder against winter coats. And somehow, when he opened his eyes, he felt much better.

Toris slipped the note back into its hiding place and snapped the book shut. He let out an explosive sigh— thinking about Ivan wasn't going to help his situation now.

There was, however, something else about this conversation that had bothered him, what _was_ it…

_Oh. The knife._

The knife was reason for concern. Toris _hadn't_ returned it, which meant Ivan was lying.

_But why would he lie about something like that?_

With a glance to make sure Raivis was alright (Ivan hadn't touched him a second time, he was certain of it) Toris strode to the door and made his way up the staircase and into the kitchen. He paused to check that Ivan was nowhere in sight, then came to a stop in front of the cutlery knives.

There, back in its slot, was the missing knife.

"How…" he breathed.

Toris paled; there was only one way this knife could have made its way back into the kitchen.

_If Ivan found this in the dungeon, shouldn't he have demanded to know how it got there in the first place? And if he brought it up himself, why would he use it as a reason to trust me? It must have been a test to see if I would play along with the lie, but—_

"Toris."

Toris jumped and glanced up to meet an exhausted pair of teal eyes.

His heart stopped.

He leaned against the counter to keep balance, hands shaking with a slight tremor. His uniform was fresh, but lumpy. The pants sagged off his waist, only a few buttons snapped on the uniform jacket. He stood in a painfully straight posture, as if determined to keep the fabric from touching his back. His face was clean but deathly pale, and blond bangs hung in strands crusted with dried blood. Resting on his face was a pair of cracked glasses with one missing earpiece.

Toris opened his mouth to say something, but no words escaped him. His chest constricted; he felt as though he had been punched in the stomach.

_No… no… what have I done…_

"I'm sorry."

Toris blinked at those scratchy words. Why was _Eduard_ apologizing?

"That's twice now I've accused you of siding with Russia, when in reality you were trying to protect me. If I had just listened and called off the plan, this would have never happened."

With those words, Eduard sunk a dagger deep into Toris's gut. He scrambled to catch the black, sticky guilt as it oozed out the cracks of his insides and dripped to the floor.

"No… no, Eduard, this wasn't your fault. There was nothing you could have done, but—but _I_ could have—"

He was gushing guilt. It hurt. His throat tightened and his eyes burned. Couldn't Eduard see it?

The Estonian let out a deep resigning sigh. Then he limped across the space between them and grabbed Toris by the shoulders to pull him into an embrace. Toris stood frozen with shock as the cool metal of Eduard's glasses pressed into his hair.

"Eduard…?"

"Stop that. You don't owe me anything."

Toris heard the words, but his brain struggled to process them. _What is he talking about?_

Eduard pulled back, hands gripped tightly around Toris's shoulders. Toris couldn't remember if they had ever stood this close; his brother's eyes were like a flash of morning sun behind glacier ice.

"If I'm being perfectly honest, you confuse me more than any other person I've met in my life. But that doesn't mean I won't stop trying to figure you out, or support you in your decisions—as illogical as they may seem." Somewhere, buried among the technicalities that made up Eduard's speech, was a promise: _I won't give up on you._

Toris didn't understand. Why would Eduard say such a thing? Why would he bother to care, after everything Toris had put him through?

_It's my fault you can barely stand right now. It's my fault for being proud and testing the rules. It's my fault Ivan started beating us in the first place. It's my fault he fell in love with me all those years ago, a-and it's my fault he fell in love with me again—!_

The spiraling mantra was interrupted by Eduard's voice:

"What do you know, he actually did it."

Toris rubbed his eyes and commanded himself to get a grip. "Did what?"

"He brought the knife back."

Toris took in a sharp breath, _He knows!_ "You mean Ivan—"

Eduard frowned. "No, not him. Prussia."

Toris stared at his brother, not understanding at all. "Prussia?"

"You don't know?"

Another stretch of stunned silence, and Eduard said, "Gilbert came to the dungeon last night."

"What," Toris breathed. But he could see that his brother was completely serious.

Toris bolted out of the kitchen. He ran down the stairs so fast he nearly tripped, panting for air by the time he staggered to a halt in front of Prussia's door. He reached for the knob with trembling hands, then threw it open.

The first thing he saw was a pair of empty shackles on the floor. His eyes followed the snaking chains to the headboard. Prussia lay stretched out across the bed, hands folded behind his head and a leg kicked up over one knee. Blood-red eyes met his, and the ex-Nazi flashed an evil grin.

"Mornin' Useless."

* * *

A sharp pain throbbed through his skull so that it hurt to open his eyes. The light cut into his head like a knife, and he let out a moan as he squinted. The only detail he could make out was a grey wash, like cement. As he blinked a few more times he noticed cracks zigzagging through it—the ceiling of their room.

Raivis moaned and turned on his side. He saw a figure sitting near him. He recognized the blue-green uniform… but something was off about this person's hair. It was…

_White? And what's with that smell?_

Raivis struggled to sit up, lifting a hand to rough over a bandage wrapped around his head. He looked down to see that he was shirtless, dressed in a pair of pajama pants that certainly weren't there the last time he'd been awake.

"Wh…where am I?" he croaked, voice grainy from disuse. "Where's Toris, where's—"

In a flash, Raivis remembered the image of Russia grinning with his arm around his brother. Raivis gasped and sat bolt upright, his head spinning.

" _Eduard!_ Where is Eduard, what happened!?"

"Whoa, kid, take it easy!"

A pair of hands reached for him, trying to force him to lay down. Raivis looked up, and for the first time he could clearly see the face in front of him. Short white hair stuck every which way out of a sloppily tied bandage, clumpy strands rusty red with dried blood. A streak of the same color ran down his neck, smeared into a burnt orange where he had attempted to wipe it off, clearly without the aid of a mirror.

Raivis recoiled from the stranger's touch; only a moment later did he recognize that sharp crimson gaze. "What are _you_ doing here!?" he sputtered, brain struggling to process the meaning behind Prussia's war-torn appearance.

"I'm checking up on you, what's it look like? You can't be moving around like that, I'm not about to play jigsaw puzzle with pieces of your skull again—"

" _Where_ is Eduard?" Raivis demanded, sending the Prussian a dark glare that warned him to stay away. He had no idea why the ex-Nazi was in their room, but it couldn't be for a good reason.

"Don't worry, your brother's taking care of him. They're in the bathroom just down the hall, everything's fine."

"But—yesterday and Russia, and—" Raivis's eyes widened. "What is _that!?"_

"What, this?"

Prussia gestured to the piece of bread and sliced sausage in his hand. For the first time Raivis noticed the silver tray set on his side table, stacked with loaves of bread, sausage, cheese, butter, and a spreading knife. He thought he smelled food!

"Just a little something I whipped up for breakfast. Want some?"

Raivis glared at the Prussian. "I'm not hungry."

Prussia raised an eyebrow. "Well, that's too bad. More for me!" He sunk his teeth into the bread, chewing loudly as crumbs fell to the floor. "Mmmm," he hummed. "Y'know—I always fought Russia's food shucks, but after seffen years of shtarving to deaf this shit's pretty good." He swallowed with a giant gulp, then reached down and brought a glass bottle to his lips.

Raivis's eyes widened as he recognized the label.

"That's my beer!"

Prussia finished drinking, leaning forward with an elbow on one knee. "Um, correction: Eddy gave this to me so I'm pretty sure it's _my_ beer."

It took a moment for Raivis to figure out who 'Eddy' was. He stared at the Prussian in disbelief. _Eduard gave him my beer? But why?_ His mind went back to when his brother had suddenly needed it, and how he had smelled like the dungeon the next morning…

 _What did Toris say? Something about Eduard going to the dungeon of his own accord?_ Raivis gasped. _No, impossible… he couldn't have! There's no way he could have gotten into the dungeon without a key, and—and Eduard would never do that, he's Eduard!_ But the more he thought about it, the more it made sense: How his brothers hadn't been surprised at Prussia's sudden release, or the fact that he was alive… Raivis gasped.

 _Did Toris and Eduard…_ plan _for Prussia to be released?_

"Don't hurt yourself, you just had a concussion."

Raivis blinked, his train of thought broken by Prussia who was putting together another sandwich. "What?"

"You're thinking too hard, I can see it in your face. Just take it easy, kid, everything's gonna be fine."

Raivis found this ironic coming from the mouth of a man who looked like he had just climbed out of a war trench.

Prussia lifted up the piece of bread layered with slices of sausage and cheese. "Sandwich?"

Raivis scowled. "What are you doing in our room?"

"I told you, I'm checking up on—"

"You're not my friend, okay?" Raivis's fists clenched around the sheets. "So stop acting like it."

Prussia let out a low whistle. "Damn, shot down by the Latvian himself. You know, I don't know if my ego can take a hit like that."

"Are you making fun of me?"

"I'm just saying you could show a little more gratitude to the guy who peeled your bleeding carcass off the floor and put your brain back inside of your head."

Raivis lifted his hand to brush the bandage. "You mean, you—"

"Yup."

"But… why?"

Prussia shrugged and bit into the sandwich. Now Raivis was beyond confused. Why would Prussia want to help him?

"Wait—but I saw you on the floor, there was blood everywhere! Why aren't _you_ in bed with a concussion?"

Prussia's mouth was too full to answer, so he just raised his eyebrows. "Mm? Oh," He swallowed the impossible amount of food in his mouth before saying, "More tolerance, I guess."

Raivis's eyes fell to the sheets. "If anyone should have more tolerance, it's me."

"No kidding. How many times has he knocked you out, kid?"

"Enough."

"So you knew this would happen."

Raivis tried to remember what had gone through his head when he heard the crashes and shouts coming from across the mansion. He had been so terrified, and yet at the same time so _angry_ that Russia could do this to them again. And without even thinking, his legs had just carried him to the scene.

_But there was no way I could have stood up to Russia, and I knew that._

His voice was small as he said, "Yeah."

A sly grin flicked across Prussia's face. "Thought so."

Those blood-red eyes lit up, and coupled with his cat smile made Raivis squirm. He needed to change the subject.

"Could I have a sandwich?"

"Help yourself, kid."

Prussia lifted the tray and placed it on Raivis's lap. He grunted as he struggled to sit up, trying to ignore the pounding in his head. Raivis picked up some bread and began spreading butter on it. He took a bite, and at the taste of food was reminded how long it had been since his last meal.

"You know kid, there's something I've noticed about you."

Raivis kept his eyes down, ripping another piece from the bread. _Great, now someone else is going to tell me to keep my mouth shut and be more careful._

"You'd make a damn good superpower."

Raivis nearly choked, coughing as he struggled to swallow the crumbs that went down the wrong way. His voice cracked with strain as he yelped, _"What!?"_

"I'm dead serious. You're not like your brothers—you don't take shit from anyone. Normally people get thrown off by my insults, but you didn't even so much as blink yesterday. Hell, you gave _me_ a run for my money! What was it you said… something about the Nazis being no better than the Soviets? That's some serious shit right there."

"It's just the truth," Raivis mumbled.

"That's exactly what I'm talking about, kid: The _truth._ Do you realize how many lies are saturating this place? Your brothers spend all day trying to be _polite_ and _obedient_ and Gott knows what else. But you? BAM, right in your face. No wonder Russia has knocked you out so many times—he doesn't stand a chance against you!"

Raivis expected it to be some kind of joke, but he could see that Prussia was serious. He didn't understand, where was this coming from?

"And you're… saying that's a _good_ thing?"

"Of course it's a good thing! Powerful nations act on the spot; we go with our gut feeling. And we aren't afraid to speak our mind because we know that nobody will get in our way."

"But you're not a powerful nation anymore, you're basically dead."

"See!? This is _exactly_ what I'm talking about, pure gold!"

"You're not making any sense."

Raivis kept his eyes down in an attempt to hide how much Prussia's words affected him. For centuries he'd been told to shut up, to sit down, to stay out of the way. His brothers had shot down his blatant comments, bemoaning how they always seemed to cause trouble. Not to mention nobody had _ever_ compared him to a superpower, or even considered it as a possibility for his future. Even after all these years, Stahlecker's words still haunted him:

_You want to be a soldier with a rank, men to lead, and an honorable purpose? Or do you want to be a scrappy, useless kid?_

Everyone he had met—every nation, even the few humans who knew what he was—always looked down on Raivis with disappointment. The most he could ever hope to be was a newly independent nation struggling to distance himself from Russia's looming influence.

But… a _superpower?_ The thought seemed ridiculous; Raivis didn't believe it for a second. But it was just the fact that Prussia had _said_ it—that it had even crossed his mind.

_Does he really see all of that in me?_

"But there's also a problem, ja? Now I'm not the expert on your brothers or anything, but something tells me they're a bit overprotective of you."

Raivis scoffed, _You have no idea._

"And because they're always trying to keep you 'safe,' you never get to do anything. Ja?"

Raivis stared in awe. "How… how do you know that?"

Prussia lifted the bottle to his lips. "I'm a big brother too, remember? We all make the same mistakes."

Raivis watched as Prussia downed another swig of beer. _That's right… I completely forgot about that!_ Somehow in his mental image of Prussia the Nazi, he had overlooked the fact that Prussia was also Germany's big brother. Prussia struck him as being so egocentric, it was hard to imagine him raising a younger sibling.

"So… were you overprotective of Germany?"

"I was at first. But then I realized the best thing I could do was to throw him into the fray and let him learn his own lessons. And before I knew it, my little brother was one of the most powerful nations in the world. Crazy, right?"

Raivis's eyes fell as memories from Germany's mansion returned. He remembered the young nation as being terrifyingly strict; in a way it scared him even more than Russia's fake smiles. And yet, a part of him mourned that Germany had grown so quickly while he remained stuck in this child's body.

"You need a kick in the pants, some way to show what you can do. Your brothers sure as hell aren't going to give it to you… but I _can."_

Raivis's eyebrows shot up, _He can't be serious._ He leaned forward to listen.

"Based on what you told me yesterday, you know I think I'm dead, right?"

"Yeah…"

"And you think that's pretty stupid of me."

"Well… yeah. You wouldn't be sitting here talking to me if you were dead."

"And I agree. But the thing is, I can't feel my people. Not a single line of connection, got it? I can't see them, hear them, I don't even dream about them."

"Okay…"

"So I need some kind of proof. What's the best way for me to find out if I actually represent the East Germans?"

Raivis could tell by the way Prussia asked the question that he already knew the answer, but he offered his best guess. "Um… to go there and actually meet them?"

"Good try, but Russia would have my head for that. I mean something I could do here, in this Gott-forsaken mansion."

Raivis frowned as he tried to think of another way Prussia could get proof. "Paperwork?"

"Close. Think about it: If I represent the East Germans, it means that my brother represents ONLY the West Germans. In other words, when the borders were drawn he would have lost half of his representation. You follow?"

Raivis nodded; it made sense.

"Which means that contacting Luddy is the best way for me to get some kind of proof."

Raivis frowned. "But there's no way, Russia would never let you do that."

"Of course he wouldn't. But do you think that would stop my brother from writing me letters?"

Raivis didn't know Germany very well, but he could tell he and Prussia were close. _If Germany has been writing Prussia letters, then…_

"Russia's been hiding them!"

"Exactly. Last night when I woke up bleeding out on the floor, Russia was busy with Eddy in the dungeon and Useless was on a day trip to Moscow. It was my only chance, so I infiltrated Russia's office trying to find them. After stitching you up, of course," he added, then made a face. "You're damn heavy, you know that? Practically broke another rib trying to get you down the halls."

Raivis couldn't believe it. _Prussia carried me? But… why?_

"Unfortunately, Useless crashed my search party and I didn't find so much as a file that suggested Russia would be hiding those letters. Now… Eddy mentioned something about the three of you having different roles in the mansion. You're the maid, right?"

Raivis’s face grew hot. "I-I'm not the maid!"

"You clean shit. Same difference."

"I'm not the _maid,_ " Raivis repeated, sending the Prussian a glare.

"Well the point is that you know this mansion like the back of your hand. I mean, how long did it take you to get from wherever the hell you were to the living room where Russia knocked you out?"

"Um… ten seconds, I guess. There's a shortcut through the dining room."

"And where did you pop out from in the hallway to Russia's office?"

"The corner to some guest rooms. It's a blind spot; you can't see it from his office."

"And what china set did I break in the dining room closest to the dungeon?"

"Mottahedeh imperial blue; Russia got it as a present from China after the war."

Prussia's eyes lit up with a sly grin. "See? You're a walking tour guide. Now for the real question: Where do you think Russia would be hiding my letters?"

Raivis frowned as he thought about it. "My guess would be either Russia's room or the office. But Russia's room is locked all day, and his office…"

Prussia raised his eyebrows in expectation.

"He locks it at night and when he goes to work at the Kremlin."

"So we could still get in during the day."

Raivis shifted; he didn't like how Prussia had said 'we.' "Well… he spends most of his time in there. And if he's not in his office he's eating with us."

"Does anyone ever get up from the table?"

"Normally we're too scared. It's… hard to get up with Russia sitting across the table… you know, watching you eat and everything." Raivis shuddered; meals were the most dreaded part of his day.

"If you asked say… to use the restroom or some lame excuse—do you think he would let you?"

Now it was 'you.'

"I don't know," Raivis said quietly.

"I know it's scary, kid. But that's why I'm asking you, because you're the only one who's got the guts to do this. I can't do it because Snow Bastard would sing the Star-Spangled Banner before letting me out of his sight, and your brothers would chain me to my bed if they found out."

"You mean—they don't know?"

"They know I went through the office, but I'm not about to tell them why. This is between you and me, kid."

Raivis stared at the Prussian in awe. How was it that his brothers couldn't even trust him with their plan, and yet Prussia was sharing something this important?

So far, each of his attempts to try and prove himself to Eduard and Toris had miserably failed. The consequences of breaking into Russia's office were _far_ worse than those of pouring his beer into Russia's sunflower pots, or interrogating Prussia, or even disobeying Russia to his face. But Raivis knew that if he could show a stolen letter from Russia's office to his brothers, they would never overlook him again. Perhaps without even realizing it, Prussia had offered Raivis the one chance he had been looking for.

"Of course if you don't want to, I can always think of a _safer_ way for you to prove yourself—"

"No." Raivis interrupted, his voice stern. He looked Prussia in the eye as he said, "I'll do it."

That sly smile again. "And you can keep it a secret, ja?"

Raivis knew he was notorious for saying things he shouldn't. But this time he was determined to keep his mouth shut. "Yes."

"I knew I could count on you. Here's to you, kid."

Prussia took a long swig of beer, seemingly pleased that Raivis took his pitch. Raivis watched him drink, completely lost. Where was the hot-headed nation who barked insults at him yesterday? He waited until Prussia lowered the bottle to press for more info.

"You never answered my question."

"Which was…"

"Why did you help me yesterday?"

A smile played at the corners of Prussia's lips. "I didn't think about it, really. You were in such bad shape, when I first woke up I thought you were a dead—" he stopped himself midsentence.

"A dead what?"

Prussia shifted in his seat. "Just… dead. I thought you were dead. I mean what am I supposed to do with a kid who's bleeding out all over the floor, pale as death and crumpled like a broken marionette? I couldn't just leave you there, that would be heartless."

Raivis didn't understand. How could the nation who orchestrated the mass murder of millions suddenly grow a conscience? But if what Prussia said was true, he felt bad about being so rude to him earlier.

"Well… thank you."

Prussia's brow smoothed in surprise, then he smiled. It wasn't sly or cocky, but the same endearing look Eduard or Toris might have given him.

"You're welcome, kid."

There was a strange moment, in which Raivis felt… _safe_ being in the room alone with Prussia. He couldn't explain it, but his fear of the ex-Nazi completely fell away.

_Maybe we've been wrong about him this entire time._

Prussia gestured towards the tray on Raivis's lap. "You gonna eat more of that, or…?"

"I'm fine."

The Prussian scoffed as he sawed more slices of sausage with the knife. "Do the three of you even _eat?_ I kept waiting for food to show up yesterday and Eddy didn't even show me the kitchen!"

"Toris is in charge of making the meals. But some days he gets… distracted." Raivis shuddered at the memory of the hiss of his brother's flesh on the stove burner. He should have known there would be no meals yesterday.

"Well that's pretty lame. Don't you and Eddy know how to cook?"

"We'll get in trouble if we don't do our jobs. But some days Russia might reassign them if…"

"If Useless can't cook."

"Yeah."

For once Prussia didn't have a sharp comeback, and Raivis was surprised to see remorse in those crimson eyes. A strange warmth coursed through him—most nations knew that living conditions at Russia's mansion were less than favorable, but none of them _felt_ for it like Prussia appeared to do now.

"So… what do you normally eat around here?"

Raivis was thankful for the change of subject. He picked up the knife and tilted it to see his bandaged reflection in the silver.

"Potatoes, cabbage, black bread… and a _lot_ of soup. Have you ever tried borscht?"

Prussia scrunched his nose. "You mean that red slop that looks like blood and guts?"

Raivis fought down a grin; he had never thought of it that way. "It's _beets,_ not blood! But once you put the sour cream in, it's more pink than red."

"Sounds _delicious_ ," Prussia drawled, swallowing an enormous bite. "Do you know käsespätzle?"

Raivis tried to remember from his time at Germany’s house. France had done the cooking, but Austria had insisted they eat German dishes, much to the poor Frenchman's horror.

"Isn't it like halušky with cheese?"

"And BACON," Prussia added, taking another huge bite. "Shit's really good, I'll have tuh make you shome shometime."

Raivis watched the Prussian eat in fascination. Before he had been dreading living with this strange nation, but now he was almost looking forward to it.

" _Prussia!"_

Raivis whipped around to see Toris standing in the doorway, Eduard's arm slung over his shoulder as the scent of shampoo wafted into the room. He had never seen such an incredulous look on the Lithuanian's face before.

Eduard locked eyes with Raivis from across the room, then his shoulders lurched and he hid a grin behind his hand.

" _Where_ did you get that!?" Toris shrieked in disbelief.

Prussia's mouth was so full of sandwich, he could barely answer. Crumbs sprayed to the floor as he said, "Uh… Vuh kitchen? Shit's good, vant shome?"

There was something about the absurdity of the situation—Toris with his face bright red, Prussia with his cheeks puffed out like a baboon, and Eduard trying his very best not to laugh. Maybe it was because Raivis was so tired of being stressed all the time, and worried, and afraid. But whatever the reason, the tension in the room was broken when the boy did something he had not done in a very long time:

He laughed.

* * *

CULTURE NOTES

**Russian food**

The food I listed here is a summary of what I spent a year eating in Latvia. Each meal comes with soup as an appetizer, and black bread. You are expected to eat the soup first, and then your main meal. Potatoes go with most meals in any form – french fries, mashed, grilled, or in Latvia, shredded and cooked as "potato pancakes." Cabbage also goes with anything and everything, usually shredded and boiled in soup (cabbage soup is called 'shi') or shredded as a salad. Borscht is the most well-known Russian dish, although its origins are actually from Ukraine. As it is made from boiled beetroot, it has a startling bright red color that resembles blood. You ALWAYS put sour cream in your borsht ('smetahna' in Russian; creamier and less sour than the American version) and this makes the red color look pink after mixed in. Smetahna also doubles as a valid condiment for literally anything.

**German food**

I adore German food, but my all-time favorite is käsespätzle, which is an unhealthy abomination of spätzle (like tiny dumplings) smothered in cheese and bacon. Raivis's choice of comparison, halušky, is the Slovak version of a similar dish with sheep cheese. But I have to apologize to my birth country here, because I would take käsespätzle over halušky any day. 


	20. Paslaptys — Secrets

_Toris sat alone on the couch. The sun had already set, and inky shadows stretched across the floor._

_An impossible weight had settled on his chest, crushing his lungs. His back still crawled with the rough touch of cool fingers ghosting down his spine, hot breath brushing his ear. He shuddered and hugged himself._

He—he was… sniffing out his prey… to test if I could stand still while he…

_Toris's stomach lurched and a lump formed in his throat._

I can't. I can't do this, not again, not after everything!

_The cushions on the couch shifted, and he glanced sideways to see who had joined him. His gaze slowly moved upwards, from polished heels up subtly curved calves sheathed in black hose, to smooth knees and white frill of a skirt hem. His gaze traced the wrinkles in midnight blue fabric, porcelain fingers folded like a doll, the dip of an hourglass waist, up a silken smooth neck against a backdrop of hair that glimmered silver in the moonlight, to a pair of velvet red lips… and cobalt blue eyes that shot through his soul._

" _I made a deal with Ivan."_

_The words left his mouth of their own accord. His voice was cracked, hopeless… pathetic. He waited for her to tell him so, but she remained silent._

_"I… I told him he could do whatever he wanted to me."_

_Delicate fingers curled into fists in her lap._

_Toris's throat tightened as he said, "In… in exchange for my brothers' safety…" He bowed his head, hair sliding forward like curtains blocking his face from view. "You must tell no one about this, do you understand? They can't know. You're not even supposed to know, but I—" his shoulders lurched, voice clogging in his throat._

I can't do this alone.

_The silence seemed to stretch on forever. Finally a low voice as smooth as silk said,_

" _Nobody will know."_

" _Thank you," Toris whispered._

" _You keep many secrets from your brothers."_

_He looked up to lock eyes with her midnight gaze. "So do you."_

_If his forwardness surprised her, she didn't show it. "I keep secrets from Vanya because he has no interest in knowing them. Your brothers are different; they actually care. Do not take that for granted."_

_Toris's lips twitched into a bitter smile. "The less they know about me, the better."_

_She scoffed. "You are just like Vanya. Pushing away your real family in exchange for your enemies."_

" _I don't—"_

" _What is it, self-defense? To maintain your pride, to hide how weak and fragile you truly are?" She curled a lip. "The reason does not matter. It is unforgivable."_

" _But I told_ you," _Toris said, meeting her with an even gaze. He didn't dare say his next thought out loud:_

And I've known you much longer than my brothers.

_She stood abruptly, hands clenched into fists as a dark flame burned in her eyes. "They are your family. You can't keep secrets from them forever."_

_Then with a swish of her dress, she turned and clacked out of the room._

* * *

Each of the nations sitting in the cramped space of the Baltics' room bore the aftereffects of Russia's rage.

Eduard lay stomach down, chin propped up with a pillow and his back crisscrossed in a thick layer of fresh bandages. A new pair of glasses rested on his nose, and his hair gleamed from a recent shower, filling the room with the fresh scent of shampoo.

Prussia's wounds were serious but hadn't been properly treated, and as a result he resembled a soldier in combat as he cheerfully passed sandwiches around the room.

Toris remained the only one uninjured, yet somehow looked worse than everyone else—his uniform lumpy and wrinkled, hair matted into an oily mess while his face bore the gaunt expression of an insomniac with high blood pressure.

Raivis had yet to look in a mirror, but he himself felt quite pitiful with his scrawny figure, subsequent scars, and bandage ruffling his hair where he could feel the curls dried with blood. Looking around the room, Raivis had never felt the tangible consequences of living in Russia's mansion more than he did now.

And yet somehow, the atmosphere remained light. Toris ate his sandwich slower than Eduard, who tore into his with absolutely no shame. Gilbert happily drank beer, while Raivis swung his feet off the edge of his bed. The room was silent save for the sound of chewing.

After a few minutes, Toris set his half-eaten sandwich on the dresser. "There's something… I need to tell you."

Raivis stopped swinging his feet.

Toris leaned forward in the chair, hands clasped between his knees as he stared numbly at the floor. Raivis could almost see the weight crushing Toris's shoulders. The sight was so heartbreaking, he had to stop himself from sprinting across the room and tackling the Lithuanian into a hug.

_Not yet. He needs room to break before you can put him back together._

"Ivan… didn't just hurt you on a whim. There was a reason for it. And that reason was me."

Raivis shared a confused glance with Eduard.

_What is he talking about?_

"In 1945, I knew fighting wasn't an option. In the past we had relied on wars to escape, but no wars were coming—none fought with gunpowder, anyway. Both of you had seen so much, had suffered _so much_. And if Ivan were to hurt you even more…" Toris wrung his hands between his knees. "I made a deal with him. I—I did it to protect you. It was the only way I knew how."

The silence became thick. Prussia picked at the scab on his head and flicked the dead pieces of skin across the room.

"He couldn't hurt you. Not a single bruise, is what I said. And he agreed."

"In exchange for what?" Raivis whispered.

Toris swallowed. Emeralds flicked up to look Eduard straight in the eye, "Me."

Raivis's mouth fell open. _What?_

"At first it was just beatings. I tried to manage alone, but Natalia found me limping to the bathroom. She was furious with me… called me an idiot for not asking for help." A small smile flickered across Toris's face, one Raivis hadn't seen in years. "We arranged a rendezvous point in the hall. She'd help me to the bathroom, then bandaged my wounds. It was just my back; easy enough to hide."

Raivis recalled how Toris's smiles became strained, how he spent more and more time with Belarus, fading out of reach like morning mist…

"We went on like that for a year. I had my secrets from you. She had her secrets from Ivan. So we lived in that little world, just the two of us and our secrets. But then things got… complicated." Toris swallowed again.

"From the very beginning, I knew it was possible Ivan could cash in on the 'other' half of the deal. But after a year, I thought maybe he'd only mentioned it as intimidation." A bitter smile. "We should have known better."

Raivis didn't have to ask what Toris meant by 'we.' The events of six years ago were starting to make sense…

"I think Natalia panicked. I told her to not to make any rash decisions, that we would somehow work it out. But she had plans of her own."

Toris's eyes filled with a genuine sorrow. "She orchestrated a scenario to trick Ivan into banishing me from the mansion… but it backfired. By the time I woke up begging to see her, Ivan told me she had already packed her bags and left for good. Maybe she did it to protect me. Maybe she never loved me in the first place. Six years have gone by, and I still don't know. Something… broke when Natalia left. I stopped caring—about her, about the two of you, or even my people. It felt like I had been shot in the chest and was dying from shock. So I let Ivan drown me. I played his little game until I fell for my own act.

"When Ivan came to take Raivis to the kitchen, at first I wasn't worried. But… Eduard was right, the situation was very unusual." Toris looked up at the Estonian. "When I found Raivis on the couch, I didn't call you right away. I took off the blanket and even most of his clothes checking for injuries. But it was just as Ivan had promised: Not a single bruise."

Raivis's eyes widened. _Toris would go that far to lie? And was I that hungover?_

"I guess after that I got… overconfident." Toris's hands clenched into fists. "I was sick of it. I was sick of smiling at Ivan, of saying 'yes sir' and 'sorry sir' like some kind of puppet. So I… decided to work behind his back. Not because I wanted to help Eduard, or save Raivis. But because I wanted… to feel… like _me_ again."

Toris grimaced. "The next night, General Winter warned Ivan that I was dangerous. At first Ivan defended me… but when things got out of control, he had every reason to believe Winter's accusations. I'd spent seven years working to build Ivan's trust, and in a matter of days the entire deal was on the verge of collapse.

"Ivan said—he said he would give me another chance. But he was lying."

Toris's voice cracked as he continued, "He—he… he used you two as an example. To give me a taste of what life here would be like if I disobeyed him again. From the very beginning I should have known fighting him was impossible. How was I so— _arrogant_ to think he would let me work behind his back without any consequences?"

He looked up, and Raivis was shocked to see the Lithuanian's eyes rimmed red with tears.

"I haven't changed. There's always this monster inside of me telling me that I'm not good enough, that I'm an embarrassment to my country, that I should be doing more… and every time I listen to that voice, the two of you pay for my decision with blood."

Raivis's eyes grew wider with each word. "Toris…"

"As of now the deal is intact, but I can never regain Ivan's trust. Everything I've done in the past few days, all the 'sacrifices' I've made for this plan… they weren't for you. They were for me."

In that moment, it felt as if the bricks to Toris's invisible wall were starting to come down—at least enough for Raivis to peer through the cracks and see the immense pain on the other side. It had taken days of tears and dungeons, but the gaping distance between them felt a little smaller.

Raivis slid off the bed and teetered towards his brother. He knelt down in front of Toris, and the Lithuanian looked up with puffy eyes.

"Hey." Raivis smiled. "Thank you for telling us all of that."

"But… it won't change anything…"

"It changes _everything,_ Toris. This whole time, we've been accusing you of getting too close to Russia. You weren't yourself around us—you were lying, and we could tell. And I was _so afraid_ you were going to leave us again."

"I-I would never do that…"

Raivis sighed. "I know that _now._ Oh, Toris."

He stood and crushed his brother in a hug that was long overdue. The fabric of Toris's uniform was cool against Raivis's bare skin, hair oily and tangled from a night he had probably spent staying up tending to him. Even Eduard, who had come back from the _dungeon_ —was better taken care of, because Toris had been the one to wash his hair and bandage his wounds.

But who was there to pick up Toris's pieces? Who could, when he never let anyone in?

"You always act like you have to fight your battles alone," Raivis said. "What do you think I meant the day I said you were our brother? That we would keep score?"

Something in Toris broke. His stiff posture melted into a desperate embrace, pulling Raivis tight against his chest. Warm tracks of tears streaked down Raivis's shoulder, a breathy laugh puffed heat into his hair.

"Sorry," Toris said, as if he had a thing in the world to apologize for. And Raivis swore to himself that he would look his brother in the eye and tell him how much he was loved every day for the rest of their immortal lives, if that's what it took for Toris to believe him.

At last Toris pulled away, sniffing as he smeared his tears with the back of his hand. As much as Raivis wanted to have a better conversation about these issues, he could tell it was time to move on. With Prussia here, it was a miracle Toris had opened up as much as he did.

It was then Raivis caught Prussia staring at him, but upon locking gazes the Prussian leaned back to pick his teeth.

"Thank you, Raivis," Toris croaked, changing the subject even as more tears leaked down his cheeks. "Eduard, can you tell him the plan now?"

Raivis spun around to stare wide-eyed at the Estonian. "You mean—you're going to tell me?"

Eduard cleared his throat, shifting his weight onto his elbows so he could talk more easily. "As you can see, things have gotten… much more complicated in the last few days. All of us need to be on the same page if we're ever going to outsmart Russia."

 _Outsmart Russia?_ Raivis thought in horror. _Is that what we're trying to do?_

"The idea was to spy on Russia the next time he took you to the kitchen," Eduard continued. "We planned to have a decoy replace the spy in the room so Russia wouldn't know someone was missing. That's why we needed Russia to release Gilbert from the dungeon."

Raivis gasped, "So you _did_ plan for his release!"

Eduard's lips pressed into a tight line. "To put it simply, if Russia holds a meeting involving the territory of GDR, Gilbert is required to attend. Toris stole the dungeon key so we could negotiate with Gilbert beforehand, but…"

"But I was an asshole."

Eduard scoffed. "You nearly killed me."

Prussia shrugged and popped a square of cheese into his mouth. "You were being an annoying little prick."

Raivis glanced between the two; was it just him or were they teasing each other? Still, this explained why Eduard had smelled like the dungeon the morning of Prussia's release.

"At first it seemed the plan was ruined… until Russia surprised us by scheduling a meeting, after all. Only he stated that all of the Soviet republics _and_ satellite states are to be present. This has never happened before. Now, according to Toris he's doing this to counter NATO, but I think we can all agree that's a cover-up."

"That's not completely true."

Everyone turned to Toris, who had by now collected himself, though his eyes were still red.

"Ivan thought maybe I was working together with Feliks. He didn't have any proof, but he said the meeting was a test to see if we would make contact. And if we did…" Toris shuddered. "I didn't want to tell you because you were already suspicious of my letters. But Ivan is wrong—Feliks and I haven't been planning anything."

There was a pause as Eduard thought about Toris's words.

"That… still seems like a strange reason to hold a meeting. And because Russia released Gilbert from the dungeon right away, the meeting may be a direct means of bringing him 'back from the dead,' so to speak." Eduard's sharp gaze fell on Prussia. "Gilbert, what did Russia say to you in his office? Did he give you an idea as to why he released you?"

Prussia clearly hadn't expected to be included in this conversation and nearly choked on the slice of sausage he had stuffed into his mouth a moment ago.

" _He!_ He wants to turn me into a satellite— _state!_ "

"Did he drop any hints as to why he's doing this?"

Prussia just coughed awkwardly and wiped his hand across his mouth.

"Yesterday Russia said something to you about an agreement. What was it—something like 'either you choose to obey me or not.' So he gave you some kind of ultimatum?"

Prussia folded his arms across his chest. "Maybe."

Toris shot him a glare, "Hiding information from us could be the difference between life and death, Prussia. We're not asking."

The Prussian snarled through his teeth. "It's none of your damn business, okay? Look, no offense, but the three of you didn't fight in the war like we did. Sure a lot of your people died, but Luddy and I _started_ the war, we fought Russia's entire damn army. We killed more of his people than all three of yours combined." Crimson eyes darted around the room. "Are you sure you want to dirty your hands with our toxic relations?"

"This isn't about 'dirtying our hands,'" Toris growled. "At first there was a possibility Ivan released you under Stalin's orders, but yesterday I learned the MGB doesn't even know you exist."

Eduard frowned. "What? How?"

"Yesterday on the drive back from Moscow, Adrik asked me if anything unusual was going on at the mansion. When I told him that Ivan had released Prussia from the dungeon, he was surprised to hear Prussia wasn't dead."

"Whoa, slow down, Useless. Who the hell is Adrik?"

"He's our government escort, a top-tier MGB agent who serves Russia directly," Eduard cut in. "So Russia has been lying to his own intelligence agency?"

"It would appear so. Once I realized the MGB didn't know about Prussia, I decided that giving Adrik more information would trigger an investigation and distract Ivan from following our trail. In fact, I'm surprised the agency hasn't shown up yet."

"It hasn't been long since then," Eduard muttered. "They could be planning to investigate today."

"My point is that Ivan is acting completely on his own, separate from the government." Toris rounded on Prussia. "I don't care how irrelevant you think that conversation is; at this point anything can help us predict his next move."

Crimson eyes glowered at Toris, and Raivis braced himself for a scathing insult. But instead, Prussia slumped into his chair with an explosive sigh.

"He… wants revenge on my brother."

 _Germany?_ _What does he have to do with any of this?_

Raivis glanced to his brothers; they seemed equally surprised.

"Turn me into a Soviet crony and rub it in his face, ja? It's either that or 'break me,' whatever the fuck that means. According to him, I'm just 'the means to an end.'" A bitter smile crossed Prussia's face. "How's that for a hit to your ego? Just the means to an end; apparently that's all I'm good for in this Gott-forsaken country." He took a long swig from a newly opened beer bottle.

Raivis could see the wheels turning in Eduard's head; the expression looked strange when he wasn't pacing.

"That's right, Russia did mention something about Germany last night. It seemed he was lying about your death in order to cause Germany pain. Is that correct?"

"Yup," Prussia said into the bottle.

"Which means, after seven years he's changing tactics. Instead of killing you, he's going to enslave you."

"You really have a way with words, you know that?"

Eduard frowned into his pillow, then looked up at Toris. "What do you think?"

Toris sat with his elbows on his knees, hands clasped under his chin. "It makes sense, especially considering Ivan's obsession with revenge. But it still doesn't explain why he would go to the trouble of holding a full meeting. Unless… he really is just trying to keep an eye on me and Feliks."

Prussia snorted, "If you ask me, he's just looking for an excuse to beat up the little shit."

Raivis sucked in a breath and slapped his hands over his mouth. _Did he just—!?_

Toris gaped at Gilbert with a look of horror that gradually darkened into a look of murder, and Raivis was grateful when Eduard interrupted:

"We have another problem: Russia knows that Toris and I planned for Gilbert's release."

Raivis and Prussia both snapped their heads towards the Estonian. "What!?" they said in unison.

"My trip to the dungeon wasn't just a manipulative gambit—it was an interrogation."

Raivis's breath left him. "Eduard…"

"Russia had traced our movements back to the day after he took you to the kitchen. Apparently Toris had mentioned something to him about Gilbert before getting the key."

Toris bowed his head again. Judging by his calm reaction, Eduard must have told him in the bathroom.

"So… Russia knows about the plan?"

"He's in a similar situation to ours: He knows we released Gilbert; he just doesn't know why."

"And did he—" Raivis's voice caught in his throat. Even after so long, the leather sting and deafening _crack!_ burned fresh in his memory.

Eduard winced. "I didn't give him the information he wanted. He whipped me until I fell unconscious."

Raivis gasped. _Oh my god… Eduard…_

Toris spoke in a low voice, "This morning Ivan told me the deal was still on. But he didn't mention anything about Prussia."

Raivis felt sick. Why did it seem like they were walking right into a trap?

"He's probably waiting for us to make another move." Eduard pushed up his glasses. "Anything we do to undermine his authority will leave more traces for him to follow. At this point it's easier for him to sit back and watch than to press for more answers, especially after his interrogation failed."

"And if we can get him to 'sit back and watch' long enough, the MGB will start an investigation before he can catch any clues," Toris finished.

Eduard swept a sharp gaze around the room. "Does that sound like a plan? We lie low until we hear word from the MGB. Everyone stays as far away from Russia as possible. No secret plans, no private agendas."

A weight settled in Raivis's chest, as the image of proudly presenting Germany’s letter to his brothers faded away.

_So much for that plan…_

"Speaking of private agendas." Toris sent Prussia a stern gaze. "What were you looking for in Russia's office?"

Raivis locked gazes with Prussia across the room. _Is he going to tell them?_

Prussia scowled and crossed his arms. "I was looking for documentation with written proof that Gilbert Beilschmidt represents the GDR. It'd be nice to know for sure whether or not I'm dead." Crimson eyes flicked in Raivis's direction—a silent message to keep the letters a secret.

_Wait—so I'm supposed to go through with it?_

A giddy mixture of relief, fear, and excitement buzzed through Raivis's veins. How much more impressive would it be, if he could manage to steal the letter even when their situation was so dangerous?

"Raivis, do you have anything to add?"

Raivis jumped and snapped his head to Eduard. "What? Oh, uh—no, I haven't really talked to Russia since he took me to the kitchen."

His brother frowned. "Are you nervous about something?"

_Shit, I knew I would be too obvious!_

"Well uh…" Raivis raced to think of an excuse for his nervousness, all the while trying not to look at Prussia. "It's just… with everything so fragile right now, and with Russia knowing about the plan and everything… What if he's planning to interrogate one of us again today? He probably chose you because he knew you were involved, but—what if he decides to ask _me_ why you released Prussia from the dungeon?"

Eduard's brows knitted. "Yesterday Russia said he needed you to be healthy for 'other reasons.' At the time he already knew about the plan…"

"So maybe he wants to interrogate me later?"

"Or he wants to get you drunk again."

Everyone turned to Toris, who sat wringing his hands between his knees.

"We'll probably never know why Ivan took Raivis to the kitchen the first time. But a lot has changed since then; our situation is entirely different. Depending on what kind of results he got, he may see it as a good method of getting information without drawing blood."

Eduard scoffed, "Since when did Russia avoid drawing blood?"

Toris’s eyes grew distant. "Something seemed off about Ivan this morning. His lie had worked perfectly, but he didn't seem happy about it. I think… maybe seven years of not hurting you two has changed the way he handles these types of situations."

Prussia let out a humorless, barking laugh. "HA! Sure didn't stop him from carving through Eddy's back like carrion!"

"I think that was a last resort. But again, all of this is just speculation. We can't know anything for sure."

Eduard sighed. "I still think the safest course of action is to lie low. If something changes and Russia interrogates one of us, then we'll come up with a new plan. A lot will depend on what the MGB does and when." His eyes flicked towards Toris. "You made the right decision in telling agent Shkarov about Gilbert. That damn intelligence agency might be our saving grace."

There was an uncomfortable silence in which Raivis realized how helpless they were. He shivered and hugged himself. _If Russia knows about the plan, there's nothing to stop him from punishing us. Even Toris admitted the deal is shaky now…_

One thing still bothered Raivis: His brothers were acting as though Toris's deal with Russia was their only safety net. But that arrangement was totally unfair—it was wrong for Toris keep sacrificing himself just so they wouldn't get hurt! Raivis understood their situation was too fragile to change it now, but the deal would inevitably fall apart.

_And when that happens… is anyone safe?_

"Ivan gave me our orders for the day," Toris said, breaking the silence. "Prussia, he wants you in his office to clean the blood from the carpet. Eduard and Raivis, he said the two of you should rest."

Raivis made a face, "You mean stay in bed?"

"Yes, your concussion is too serious for you to be walking around. Ivan also wants a 'family dinner' tonight, you two included."

Raivis and Eduard let out a simultaneous groan. Raivis, because he hated the pressure of Russia giving him that creepy grin from across the table. Eduard, probably because any movement was extremely painful.

"Since I'm late in getting started, Prussia, I'll need your help in the kitchen," Toris continued. "I _hope_ that won't be a problem."

Prussia's lips twisted into a devilish grin. "As long as you don't run me through with a rolling pin, we should get along _swimmingly."_

Raivis's gaze darted between his brother and the Prussian. Prussia and Eduard seemed to be getting along fine, but there was clearly a deep wedge driven between the ex-Nazi and his oldest brother.

_I hope they don't break into another fight…_

"I think that covers everything." Toris looked around the room. "Are there any clues we missed?"

The silence again. Raivis squirmed; how was he supposed to stay in bed all day with so much going on!?

After deciding their discussion was over, Toris played doctor for Eduard as he gave him more pain meds, asked about the bandages, do you need more blankets or pillows? Eduard answered in a series of grunts and 'uh-huh's,' a sign that talking was actually quite painful for him.

Raivis stood and stretched his arms high above his head, glancing in Prussia's direction just in time to catch a wink. The Prussian didn't have to say it out loud:

_Nice work, kid._

"Raivis! You shouldn't be moving around like that!"

Raivis deflated with a sigh and a not-so-discreet roll of his eyes. "Da, ladna."

He crossed the room and plopped onto the mattress, deciding not to comment when he noticed Toris's hands were still shaking, voice fluttery as he asked a series of rapid-fire questions: "Are your bandages too tight? How do your stitches feel? Are you dizzy?" A part of Raivis wanted to snap that he was fine, but he'd allow his brother to fret over him if that's what it took to pretend things were normal.

After what felt like endless questions and tightening of the bandages and instructions on how to properly take pain meds (which Raivis was well-experienced with, along with every other treatment involving concussions) and readjusting of the covers and picking which type of pastry he would like as a snack, Toris _finally_ stepped away from the beds.

"I'll come down every half hour to check on you. If you need anything, just call, okay?"

"Okay," Raivis answered mechanically.

After a final (and thorough) scan from Toris to make sure his brothers were settled, he strode towards the bedroom door. But as he passed Prussia, Toris's face scrunched into a look of disgust. "Oh my— _god."_

"What?"

"That… _smell…"_ Toris coughed. "You really should take a shower."

Prussia chuckled darkly. He stood up, balancing the now empty tray on one hand. "Showers and I have a complicated relationship."

"Then take a bath. I'm not letting you near the kitchen smelling like that."

"You got any cologne?"

" _No,"_ Toris growled as he stepped through the doorway.

Prussia cupped a hand over his mouth as he whispered in German, " _That liar said the same thing to me yesterday when I asked him for cigarettes."_

"Prussia!"

"I'm _coming!"_ Prussia marched after Toris, silver tray teetering on his spread fingers. "You know, you don't exactly smell like fruitcake, either! Did you even change uniforms since yesterday?"

Raivis stared at the door as the two nations' bickering voices faded away. A deep exhale filled the room, and he turned to see Eduard bury his head into the pillow.

"Hey… Eduard?"

"Mmm."

"I didn't ask earlier because I didn't want to get us sidetracked, but… why are you calling Prussia by his human name?"

After a moment, the Estonian lifted his face up. "I guess you could say he's human to me now."

"Yeah," Raivis mumbled, remembering the hilarious image of Prussia with sandwich stuffed in his mouth. He smiled into his lap. "Me too."

Raivis wanted to ask more, like why Prussia had smelled like the dungeon, how Toris had stolen the key, or why Prussia had decided to help them. But Eduard was beyond exhausted, so it was probably best to just let him sleep.

Raivis wormed into the covers, turning on his side as his eyes traced the spiderweb of cracks shooting through the wall. Despite all the uncertainties, he knew one thing for sure:

Life in Russia's mansion would never be the same.

* * *

Commission by [chapteruntitleddd](https://chapteruntitledddd.tumblr.com/post/625394100684931072/an-illustration-for-chapter-20-of-chessna2s)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> "Da, ladna" is a very sarcastic and reluctant way to agree to something. It's the English equivalent of a teenage girl sighing "OKAY, Mom." The situation here was just too perfect; I had to put it in ;)
> 
> Some fun language trivia for you… This is one of the few scenes in this story that takes place in English. If the Baltics had been speaking Russian, Raivis would have been able to tell Eduard and Gilbert were close through the use of the informal "you." ("tee" instead of "vee") But since English doesn't use formalities, Raivis found out through Gilbert's name.
> 
> For future reference, any scene with Toris and Gilbert is in English, unless Ivan or human OCs are present. Any scene with Gilbert and Eduard/Raivis is in German. Everything else is in Russian.
> 
> If you want to check it out, I wrote a deleted scene where Toris helps Eduard clean up in the bathroom. It's a filler that hints at some Estliet which we will see more of later in the story, but it's not important to the plot. To read the scene, click [HERE!](https://chessna2.tumblr.com/post/189397189407/deleted-estliet-scene)
> 
> Thank you to chapteruntitleddd for this incredible commission! They do some amazing Baltic fan art and their work helped to inspire me while I was writing DITR. 
> 
> Thanks for reading as always, and for your lovely comments!


	21. Schokolade — Chocolate

Gilbert had been kidnapped, drugged, beaten, imprisoned, starved, gassed, experimented on, and betrayed by his own country.

But since the war, nothing had terrified him as much as going down to the dungeon to talk to Estonia.

As Gilbert had grasped for strings of conversation while gulping down beer to steady the pounding of his heart, over and over the questions had screamed:

_What am I doing here? How do I think this will solve any of my problems? And what possessed me to think Estonia would be willing to help me?_

Gilbert didn't know _what_ he needed help with, what he had expected of Estonia, or what would come out of meaningless small talk. All he knew is that he was lost, and alone, and scared. And so far, Estonia had been the only one not to pass judgement on him, but to _listen_ and patiently answer his questions… even though Gilbert had done nothing but cause him trouble since the moment they met.

And when he found Estonia's body crumpled at the foot of the whipping post, it had only scared Gilbert more. How could he possibly expect Estonia to be of any help, when the guy's back was literally in shreds?

And yet, Estonia didn't make fun of him. Instead, he asked Gilbert the one question he'd sworn to avoid:

" _You went missing during the war, didn't you?"_

It was amazing how one simple sentence could affect him. Gilbert's brain shut down, and restarted, and he felt lightheaded, and he couldn't breathe. A part of him screamed to change the subject. But another part almost wept at the chance to share the burden he'd carried for seven years.

It was hard at first, but the more he talked, the easier it became. And before Gilbert could stop himself, it came gushing out like a firehose—the camp, the prisoners, the doctors, the confusion and rage and betrayal—all the pain Gilbert had kept bottled up since the war had ended, the weaknesses and fears he'd been too proud to admit.

When his mind came back to reality and he blinked to realize he was still sitting in the pitch blackness of Russia's dungeon, he almost expected Estonia to laugh at him. To sneer that he got what he deserved, leaving Gilbert alone to pick through the wreckage of his past.

But he didn't. Not a single word of judgement passed from Estonia's lips that night. And after Gilbert stammered an awkward excuse that it was getting late, after he staggered up the stairs nearly dropping the beer and knife because his hands shook so violently… he collapsed onto the bedroom floor.

Because for the first time since that summer night of 1941, he didn't feel alone.

But it wasn't just Estonia who had left Gilbert reeling.

The discussion in that cement container the Baltic States called their bedroom was nothing short of astounding. The way they had speculated, reasoned through, and predicted Russia's motives was like nothing Gilbert had ever seen.

He watched Estonia and Lithuania closely to see if there had been any disconnect—a single moment where the two were on separate beats or misunderstood each other. But their deductions and predictions were so closely aligned, sometimes it seemed they were finishing each other's _sentences._ Even Latvia, who had been left out of much of the earlier planning, seemed to follow the conversation without a problem. And just when Gilbert thought the kid would crack under pressure and blab his secret, he covered it up with a perfectly valid concern that sent his brothers on yet _another_ trail of seamless deductions.

_Those three are damn smart._

And he supposed they had to be, if they were going to survive in a place like this. Until this morning, Gilbert had never seen the three of them together. He'd heard each Baltic go on separately about 'my brothers,' spouting what had sounded like self-sacrificial nonsense.

But it wasn't until he had seen that teamwork in action—Estonia, the cool head who made lightning-speed deductions, Lithuania with his unique insight into Russia's character, and Latvia whose fears protected them from being overconfident—that Gilbert truly understood their binding loyalty.

And if that wasn't enough, when Lithuania admitted the truth about his deal with Russia, he was met with pure, genuine forgiveness.

 _It's not every day you see nations willing to forgive each other like that. Or support each other, or make those kinds of sacrifices for each other. Maybe between a married couple, yeah, but between_ three _unbound nations? That shit's rarer than gold._

The more Gilbert learned about these three tiny nations unbeknownst to Western Europe, the more he grew to resent their situation. Who could shatter the skull of an innocent boy who just wanted to be acknowledged? Who could lash a fucking _cat-o-nine_ into the back of probably the most brilliant nation on the continent?

_It just doesn't make sense. Russia lives with some of the coolest nations out there. Why is he hell-bent on ruining their lives?_

Gilbert had always hated Russia. But somehow he hated him even more since he'd come to know the Baltic States.

And so it was that as Gilbert stood at the great oak door to Russia's office, a deep resentment stirred in his gut—one he'd never felt towards his captor until now.

He didn't bother to knock, pushing the door open with a low _creak_ that reverberated in his bones. He stepped into the office, boots sinking into the Persian rug as his lungs filled with the scent of books and dust. A quick sweep of the office told him Russia had already cleaned up the scattered files, and the knowledge that several of them had been ruined with bloodstains gave Gilbert a sort of smug satisfaction.

Cold violets darted in his direction, then Russia's face spread into a creepy smile. "Ah, Prussiya! I was worried Litva had not sent you."

"I heard you weren't a fan of bloodstained carpets. It's a pity—I think it adds a nice touch to the place, ja? I mean if evil overlord is what you're going for, the blood really adds to the atmosphere."

Russia's smile didn't waver. "Oh, you're not here to clean up the blood."

Gilbert ignored the knot forming in his stomach. "Then what the fuck do you want."

Russia rose to his feet, shuffling papers on his desk and setting them aside. "You were looking for letters from Germany, da? When you vandalized my office."

_No way… how the hell can he know that!?_

Russia's smile became smug. "Don't think I haven't played this game long enough to know the first thing any ex-superpower will go looking for is correspondence from his closest ally. Be that an ex-spouse, secret lover, close friend…" Russia flicked out a folded document and held it between two fingers. "…or a sibling."

_Nein, it—it can't be!_

"Would you like to know what this is, Little One?"

Gilbert glared daggers at his captor. "I'm not in the mood for one of your sadistic tricks."

"You can decide for yourself whether or not this is a 'trick' once I have finished explaining it to you." Russia gestured to the chair in front of his desk, that creepy smile still lighting up his face. "Come, sit!"

Gilbert hesitated a moment before crossing the room and lowering himself into the chair. He reached for the document, but Russia snatched it away and tucked it in his breast pocket.

"Patience, Little One."

Gilbert's eyes fell to the letter opener on the desk. _If I were fast enough, could I stab him in the throat and then take the letter?_

The thought had barely entered Gilbert's mind before he realized what a horrible plan it was. Not only was he no match for Russia's strength, but he didn't want to deal with the superpower's rage once he woke up on the floor with a letter opener sticking out of his neck.

Having cleared the desk, Russia took a seat and held Gilbert in a piercing violet gaze. "Seven years ago, you made me a promise. Do you remember what that was, Prussiya?"

Gilbert just glared.

"You offered your life in exchange for your brother's freedom. You told me I could claim the fame of killing you, if I so wished. You said that I could 'watch the light go out of your eyes, once and for all.'" Russia folded his hands on the desk. "It seems you have broken your promise."

Gilbert rolled his eyes; did this psycho actually think he _wanted_ to stay alive? "Oh yes, forgive me. I just enjoyed your weekly back massages _so much_ , I couldn't give them up. And the scenery down there!" He let out a low whistle. "You could make postcards out of that shit."

If the sarcasm bothered Russia, he didn't show it. "Of course, after your country was officially dissolved and you showed no signs of weakening, I realized trying to kill you was a waste of time. Torture became a good way to vent, but after nearly a decade even your screams were nothing but dull noise to my ears."

Gilbert rubbed his wrists where the shackles had dug scars into his skin. A sharp _CRACK_ of a whip echoed in his memory.

"My entire purpose behind taking custody of you had been to kill you. But you were so completely and utterly _useless,_ you couldn't even fulfill that role. You were nothing but a rotting carcass stinking up my dungeon—old garbage that needed to be disposed of."

"So you gave up and decided to train me to be a satellite state," Gilbert interrupted, waving a hand. "Yeah we already figured out your evil plan. You're not the only one playing detective, you know."

Russia raised his eyebrows. "Do you really think that would be my first choice? Already you've vandalized my bathroom, destroyed one of my prized china collections, and now rifled through my office leaving a trail of blood through half my house. You've held a knife to Litva's neck and threatened to kill him while calling him names, and I don't doubt you've humiliated Estonia and Latvia in similar ways. It will take months, possibly _years_ of precious time and energy to force the ideologies of Communism down your stubborn throat, money to buy you food and uniforms, and paperwork to enroll you in military training. Not to mention I will have to navigate the bureaucracy of explaining your existence to the majority of my government, most of whom believe you to be dead. And this does not even scrape the surface; how do you think the other republics and satellite states will react when they first see you at our meeting? By releasing you, Prussiya, I have released a monster that will continue to gnaw at my heels until it is tamed."

Gilbert's brows drew together as he processed the Russian's words. It had never occurred to him that releasing him from the dungeon would be such a chore.

"Tell me, Prussiya: If you had been in my situation, what would you have done? Say, if you were keeping Poland captive and needed to get rid of him."

Gilbert curled a lip, _I hate that brat._

He sympathized with the Poles after witnessing the horrors of the death camps, but their nation representative was a different story altogether. Even between screams of agony, Poland had thrown sarcastic comments about how Gilbert needed a tan and didn't get laid enough—it was damn near impossible to control him.

_Oh wait—that's probably exactly how Russia feels about me._

"I would send him back to the shithole we pried him out of. Let his own people pick up the pieces."

A dark smile spread across Russia's face. "Exactly."

He slipped the document out of his breast pocket and placed it on the desk. "Nine months ago, Comrade Stalin and the Politburo agreed the best way to quickly dispose of you would be to send you back to your own territory. Not only that, but we also saw no use for the GDR itself."

Gilbert's eyes widened. _What?_

"We drafted a letter addressed to the Allies proposing a reunification of East and West Germany. This, of course, included returning you to the jurisdiction of West German authorities." Russia slid the document across the desk and nodded.

Gilbert snatched it up, hands shaking as he opened the trifold.

_Note from the Soviet Foreign Ministry to the American Embassy_

_Enclosing a Draft for a German Peace Treaty, March 10, 1952_

Gilbert had enough experience trudging through mountains of paperwork to read these damn things as quickly as possible. His eyes flew across the page:

_The Soviet Government considers it necessary to direct the attention… to the fact that although about seven years have passed since the end of the war in Europe, a peace treaty with Germany is not yet concluded… The peace treaty with Germany should be formed on the following basis: …Germany is re-established as a unified state, thereby an end is put to the division of Germany and a unified Germany has a possibility of development as an independent democratic peace-loving state…_

Gilbert's breathing shook. "You… you sent this?"

"Da."

Gilbert's grip tightened on the page. "Then…" He stood up so fast his chair clattered to the floor, slamming the documents on the desk. "Then what the FUCK am I still doing here!? You wanted to get rid of me, didn't you!? Why the fuck would you lie about something like that!?"

Russia remained calm, placing his elbows on the desk and lacing his fingers. "We didn't lie. The offer was genuine."

Gilbert bared his teeth in a snarl. "You're lying," he hissed. "This whole thing is a lie, this damn piece of paper is a FAKE!" He wadded up the document and hurled it to the far side of the room.

"It is not a fake. The American, British, and French embassies all received copies of the same document. The West German government was immediately informed of the treaty, and all if its stipulations were genuine." Russia leaned forward, a smile snaking across his face. "Knowing all of those facts… how do you suppose it is possible, that you are still here?"

Gilbert's nails dug into his palms as he forced himself to calm down and think.

 _He wouldn't have released me from the dungeon unless it was a last resort. Clearly this—_ treaty _was his only way to avoid it. But if I'm still here, that means…_

Gilbert's eyes widened as he realized the answer to Russia's question.

"It… it fell through."

"Very good, Prussiya. And who do you think refused?"

Gilbert's first answer was Britain, or France. Hell, maybe even the American kid had it out for him. But something about Russia's smile told him all of those answers were incorrect.

_No… no, it can't be…_

"It was your brother."

Gilbert's mouth fell open. _Nein, that's crazy, why would he—_

"We sent three more letters requesting German reunification, all within the span of five months." Russia pulled another folded packet from his breast pocket and opened the trifold, spreading three documents on the desk that resembled the first. "But no matter how we worded the terms, the West German government always responded the same way. I have their refusals here…"

Another packet. Gilbert's hands shook.

_This can't be happening, those are fake, all of this is just a lie…_

Russia dropped four documents on the desk with a _slap._

"…all signed and approved by the Federal Republic of Germany."

Gilbert reached for the documents and slid them to the edge of the desk. His eyes were drawn to the familiar glide of an ink signature at the bottom, graceful arcs that swooped upwards and down in meticulous perfection:

_Ludwig Beilschmidt._

Gilbert spread the documents with shaking fingers, his eyes darting from one perfect signature to the next:

_Ludwig Beilschmidt._

_Ludwig Beilschmidt._

_Ludwig Beilschmidt._

"You seem surprised."

Gilbert's eyes rose to the Russian sitting across from him, lips curling into a snarl. _You… you sadistic bastard… this is all a set-up to fuck with my head…_

"And I was too, at first. But after the second refusal, I realized: Why would Germany want to reunite with the nation who abandoned him in Berlin?"

The screaming inside of Gilbert's head stopped, replaced with a deafening silence. "What are you talking about."

"I'm talking about when I heard your brother call your name. Naked. Curled up on the cement, shaking with silent sobs as he pleaded like a wounded animal."

An entire new emotion rose inside of Gilbert, breath escalating as he felt droplets of blood forming in his fists.

" _What did you do?"_ he hissed.

Russia's smile became smug. "I did what any nation in my situation would have done. Germany killed millions of my people—so much the very ground seeped with blood. But as always, my people would rebuild and eventually be replaced by a new generation. Similarly, though I had spilled my share of German blood, it would do nothing in the way of revenge. Neither would pain—even if I stripped every last muscle from his bones, they would grow back."

Russia placed his elbows on the desk and leaned forward, eyes aglow with a satisfied madness that shot chills down Gilbert's spine.

"So you see? I took something away from him that he will _never_ get back. And he will carry that weight for the rest of his immortal life."

White noise arose in Gilbert's head, and blind hatred rolled down his insides like black tar.

"You—you son of a BITCH!"

Gilbert lunged for the letter opener, then sprinted around the desk to go in for a stab. Russia caught his wrist, twisting it behind his back with such force that Gilbert cried out in pain. Giant hands slammed his face onto the desk.

Gilbert's vision flickered, a searing pain exploded through his head as the tender skin on his forehead split and blood rolled down his temple. His breath was fast and hot against the wood, cheeks mashed so that he could barely speak. He tried to break free, but Russia pressed his weight onto Gilbert's back, crushing him into the desk.

"It's _war,_ Prussiya, what did you expect? That your brother would escape with a slap on the hand?" Hot breath panted in Gilbert's ear, "Surely you didn't think I just wanted him for his skills on the battlefield?"

" _I'll kill you,"_ Gilbert hissed, words raspy and wet with spit. "I'll fucking _kill you!"_

"I fail to understand why you are so angry. Given his young age, you should have known there would be those with their eyes on him."

"My brother is not a prize to be won," Gilbert snarled.

"To you, of course not. But to the rest of us, it's just part of the game." Russia's whisper sent the skin on his neck crawling, "But you _knew_ that, didn't you? You also knew that my army was advancing to Berlin, that the Nazis were running out of resources and their leadership was doomed. You knew Germany would lose, and you knew he would lose to _me."_ Gilbert could hear the smile in Russia's voice, "So why didn't you save him?"

Gilbert’s mind screamed with the answer: _Because I was picking through piles of dead Jews to try and find the survivors! Because they needed help, they needed food, they needed to find their families—_

But he knew in his heart that Russia was right. Gilbert had been on the front lines when the Soviets started gaining ground; hell, he was liberating _camps_ with them. He heard stories of how the Nazis fell back, frostbitten and weary from lack of supplies. He sat around fires while the Red Army toasted to a successful march to Berlin.

Yes, he knew Ludwig would be alone when the Red Army closed in. He knew his brother would fight back until his very last breath, until every bit of his strength had been sapped and he drowned in the pool of his own blood… because that was the brother Gilbert had raised. The little blue-eyed boy with determination like steel, who would slaughter millions and think it justified, because it was _for his country._

And as Gilbert had watched the fuchsia rays of sun shrink into the Western horizon where he knew his brother was fighting for his life, he made the choice not to go. He turned around and walked back through the twisted wire gates, back into the clinging stench of death and decay. In the name of saving his people, Gilbert abandoned the one person he had sworn to protect.

_He—he hadn't been with anyone… he wasn't even interested in women… and then the anti-gay laws came and I knew he was terrified… He was so fucking scared of that part of himself… and now…_

His shoulders lurched with a sob. Gilbert's lips pressed into a grimace as tears streamed down his cheeks and dripped onto the desk.

"What I did to your brother was right by me. But you might have been able to stop me, had you been there. Do you understand, Prussiya? Germany refused reunification because _he doesn't want to see you anymore."_

_No… no, that's not true!_

Gilbert's eyes split open, the world a blur as he croaked, "Then—what was all that bullshit about getting revenge by telling him I was dead? It would be useless if he didn't care."

"That little lie was useful to me at the time. But now that I see you're determined to find proof of correspondence, I decided it would serve my interest to tell you the truth." Russia's deep voice rumbled through the desk as he whispered, "There _are_ no letters, Prussiya."

Gilbert bared his teeth in a snarl. "Let me go."

"It is useless to deny it—"

"I said, LET ME GO!"

Gloved hands tightened, then Russia took his weight off Gilbert. He had barely stepped back before the Prussian twisted out of his grip and bolted for the office entrance, throwing open the door with a slam and sprinting down the hallways.

_I have to get out of here. I have to get out of here!_

He kept running—past dining rooms, libraries, guest rooms, the occasional portrait of Stalin whizzing by. He ran past an empty ballroom, an untouched piano and a sunflower collection. He ran until he staggered to a stop in an abandoned study, his breath ragged and shoulders heaving.

Then Gilbert fell to his knees, pressed his head to the floor, and wept.

* * *

_Gilbert's eyes flew open with a strangled gasp._

_He lurched upwards in bed, coughing so violently his thin frame rattled. His lungs burned, his stomach clenched and he leaned over to retch into the pan that had been set on the floor near the bed._

_Gilbert panted, lungs groaning in protest with each careful intake of air. The hot adrenaline of fear drained away, leaving him weak and shaken, and sweat ran down his back in zigzagging droplets._

_With a shaky sigh, Gilbert opened his eyes._

_He sat in a plush, queen-sized bed, the comforter a rosy sheen swirling with brass threads of design. Golden sunlight poured in through the open window, enhancing the wooden walls and cream-colored carpet._

_Gilbert's gaze was drawn to a framed photograph of him and Ludwig propped up on the dresser, arms looped around one another as they raised two beer steins jovially into the air._

Oh, that's right. I'm not in the labs anymore.

_He squinted, straining to remember how many days it had been. Three? Five? He had lost count._

_Gilbert had been so sure that once Ludwig saved him, he would regain his previous identity. But this unexplained coughing fit only proved his fears: His symptoms went beyond that of an abducted prisoner. No, this was much darker, much more severe._

_Gilbert rolled up his sleeve with thin fingers, staring down at the six-digit number scrawled onto his arm. It burned his skin in a cold whisper:_

What's wrong, Little Rabbit?

_The house shook with a door being opened._

_Gilbert yanked down his sleeve and struggled to sit up in bed, wiping the bile from his mouth. He listened to the jingle of keys and paper bags echo from the foyer, then heavy boot steps entered the kitchen._

" _You bring any beer?" he called, voice cracking as he broke into coughs._

 _There was a_ thump _of bags hitting the floor, and boot steps neared the bedroom. A tall nation stepped into the room and turned to Gilbert._

_Blue eyes. Sharp and clear, like glacier melt of the Alps. Broad shoulders and marble white muscle that bulged through the forest green uniform. A face chiseled into sharp slanted lines, with a long, pointed nose that shadowed tight thin lips. Hair, as golden as the rays of the sun, gelled and pressed beneath a green and black military cap. In the center glistened a golden eagle, its head lifted high and wings outstretched, perched on a small swastika._

_Ludwig's eyes darted to the pan by the bed. "You had another coughing fit."_

_Gilbert waved a bony hand. "Yeah, yeah, what else is new. Come on, show me what you got!"_

_For a moment Ludwig looked about to argue, but his face softened into a smile. It was only a slight lift of the lips, but damn did it melt Gilbert's heart. He had forgotten how much he missed that smile._

_Ludwig disappeared into the kitchen, then returned with an armful of bags. He set them down and pulled out a case of glass bottles._

" _I've got… Hefeweizen…"_

 _Gilbert's mouth watered just at the sight of them._ " _Oh-ho-ho-ho, yesss."_

" _Lucky Strikes…"_

_Gilbert sat up bolt upright. "No fucking way! How did you get those?"_

_Ludwig handed him the cigarette case, and Gilbert flipped open the top to stare wide-eyed at the American treasure inside._

" _And something else I thought you might like…" Ludwig pulled out something square from his bag, then threw it across the room. Gilbert snatched it from the air, eyes widening when he read the golden label._

" _Chocolate!?"_

_That smile again._

_Gilbert just stared at his brother, his mouth hanging open. "Are you a god, or something?"_

" _Nein, just a soldier who knows which strings to pull." Ludwig nodded towards him. "Go on, try it."_

 _Gilbert peeled back the paper, breaking off a small piece of the candy. He couldn't even remember the last time he had_ seen _chocolate, let alone tasted it. He popped the square into his mouth, feeling it melt on his tongue. Gilbert closed his eyes and hummed with the sweet pleasure that only came from food._

" _How is it?"_

" _It's fucking heaven." Gilbert broke off another piece and shoved it into his mouth, words slurred by the candy, "You know, vhis thotally maketh up f'the shit bread we had yesterday."_

" _Sorry, we can't afford to waste any food. But don't worry, we're going to celebrate with a proper feast when you've regained your strength."_

_Gilbert looked up from his chocolate bar. "Wiff bratkartoffeln?"_

" _Just bought the potatoes today."_

" _Und käsespätzle?"_

" _As much as you want."_

" _I could fucking kiss you right now."_

" _Don't, you'll get chocolate all over me." Ludwig bent down to reach into one of the bags. "I also stopped by the Lager and got you this."_

_Gilbert watched the heavy Prussian blue fabric slide out of the bag. Golden brass buttons and sleeve cuffs stood out against the dark color. A black iron cross was attached to the left pocket, and above the right, the same eagle perched upon the swastika._

_The hair on the back of Gilbert's neck stood on end._

" _Now that we've occupied the Soviet republics, the Wehrmacht is advancing into Russia," Ludwig explained, not seeming to notice Gilbert's hostility. He scanned the suit with sharp eyes, reaching up to brush an invisible piece of dust from the right shoulder. "Heer uniforms are more suitable for the cold, but I thought you would like a Kriegsmarine one since you always preferred the blue."_

_Gilbert allowed his muscles to relax. It was just a uniform; it could hurt him or anything._

_"Luddy… I can't wear that."_

_"Why not?"_

_"I—I don't know. Maybe it's because of those bastards in the labs, they were wearing those uniforms."_

_Ludwig let out a deep sigh, lowering the hanger to the ground. "I understand. Even I don't know who to trust—when I searched for you, it seemed as though our entire government had forgotten you exist."_

" _Or they were pretending to," Gilbert growled. He stared numbly at the chocolate in his hands; suddenly he had lost his appetite._

" _I'm sure it was some conspiracy cooked up by the SS. They must have threatened everyone else to keep quiet."_

 _Gilbert gave his brother an odd look. "Didn't you hear what I said about Ribbentrop? Hitler ordered my capture,_ he's _the one behind those fucked up experiments. This isn't a freak conspiracy, Ludwig, this is our entire system of government!"_

" _I understand what Ribbentrop said to you was disturbing. But just one sentence from one official isn't enough to prove the Führer authorized your capture, and it certainly doesn't bear enough weight to keep you out of the ranks. You're our top soldier, we need you in the invasion! I'm sure if we spoke to him, he would let you return to the front."_

_Now Gilbert was regretting eating so much chocolate; he was starting to feel sick. He reached for the pack of cigarettes._

_"So they'll let me fight even though I'm 'not German enough?' I'm_ honored."

_"What else would you have me do? We knew the Führer wanted to get rid of the Jews and 'less German' peoples; how was I supposed to know albinism was included?"_

_Gilbert's words were muffled by the cigarette as he cupped a hand over the lighter, "Oh, so now you care just because_ I'm _an Undesirable."_

" _Don't act so righteous. You were the one who told me to look the other way when the Jews were being forced to live in ghettos. I'll bet you didn't even think twice about their deaths until you saw the camps up close."_

_A sick feeling settled in Gilbert's stomach. Ludwig was right; they were both at fault. He plucked the cigarette from his mouth, puffs of smoke trailing out with his words._

_"Look, you're right, okay? We both fucked up. But now that we know what's really going on, we have the power to stop it! I'm sure there's somebody in the government who's disgusted by all this racial shit; we can kick out Master Mustache and put them in power instead!"_

_Ludwig looked at Gilbert as though he'd lost his mind. "We're in the middle of a_ war _, we can't overthrow our own government! If the chain of command is ruptured, our armies will fall into chaos and we'll lose to the Allies in a matter of weeks! As twisted as the Nazi ideology is, it's gotten us this far. We're_ so close, _Gilbert—the Red and British armies are all that's left of our opposition. And as soon as this war is over, we can help—"_

" _Who, the dead? Oh, I'm sure they'll be beside themselves with gratitude."_

" _I'm serious, Gilbert!"_

" _And you think I'm not? How many innocent people are you willing to let die in the name of World Domination?"_

_Ludwig's eyes clouded with confusion. "You… taught me never to ask that question."_

" _Well I'm asking you now. Give me a number, Ludwig. A million? Two million? How many graves do you want to account for when all of this is over?" Gilbert took a long pull of the cigarette, blowing out a steady stream of smoke that clouded his brother's face in grey._

_An icy gaze met him through the haze. "As many as it takes."_

Mein Gott, he's serious.

_Gilbert knew he himself was to blame for his brother's cold worldview, but he thought surely after hearing the horrors of the death camps, Ludwig would change his mind._ _Gilbert looked down to stare at the tattoo etched into his skin. He remembered the faces of the children craning over the windows in their cells, arms and legs bumping on a wheelbarrow as they were led to a billowing pillar of black smoke…_

_Gilbert rested his elbows on his knees, watching the ember of the cigarette burn in a bright orange ring._ " _I guess that's where we're different. Because I would lose this war in a heartbeat if it meant saving another mother, child, doctor, or shoemaker from being lined up by a ditch and shot just because of who they are."_

_Gilbert heard the smile in his brother's voice, "You can't be serious."_

_He lifted the cigarette to his lips, staring blankly into the haze as he leaned back on the headboard. "I'm dead serious."_

_There was a long pause as Ludwig processed this. Gilbert felt an icy gaze on him, probably searching for a sign that this was all a joke **.**_ _But as the silence dragged on and Gilbert stared grimly at the wall, his brother's smile fell into a look of betrayal._

" _Do you have_ any _idea how long I spent looking for you? I left the front—I left_ my men _to find you, and my only lead was a telegram from Austria saying you were last sighted in Vilnius! I questioned every Wehrmacht and SS officer I came across, and it was only by chance that I heard someone mention an 'immortal specimen.' I infiltrated_ five _laboratories before I finally found you, and each time the number of SS guards doubled. I_ _had authorities breathing down my neck, incessant telegrams from Austria, and the Führer even threatened to take away my post! But I kept searching, because I knew I couldn't win this war alone. Everything we've done so far would be meaningless if you weren't there to celebrate our victory."_

 _Ludwig's brows knitted in confusion. "But now—now you're acting like you don't even_ want _to fight. 'Lose the war in a heartbeat,' do you even hear yourself? You're the Great Prussia; you don't lose wars!"_

_Once again Gilbert stared at the tattoo. His eyes traveled down the bony length of his forearm to look at the knobs of his knees hanging from the bed. His pale skin twisted with scars, throat sore from coughing fits. His super strength was all but gone; he couldn't even walk to the doorway without clinging to the wall for support._

_And all he could think about, all he could see and hear and feel, was the utter desperation of the persecuted scattered across Europe._

_There was only one explanation. It was one that defied all reason, one Gilbert had been running from since the day he was captured. But all along, a part of him had known it to be true._

" _I'm not the Great Prussia anymore."_

" _What?"_

_He looked up at his brother. "I'm not the Great Prussia anymore. Just look at me, Ludwig. You think this is a nation who would stand a chance on the Eastern Front?"_

" _Your body will regenerate, you'll regain your strength—"_

" _This_ is _my regenerated body." Gilbert mashed the cigarette butt into the ashtray on the side table, the ember smoldering with a soft_ hiss.

" _You can buy me all the chocolate and potatoes you want, but as long as there are millions out there being starved and worked to death, I won't gain a single pound. Don't you see?_ I'm _the Jews. I'm the gypsies and the homosexuals and the disabled, the 'scum of the earth' to be scraped from Europe's boots. And until we put a stop to this, that's not going to change."_

 _Ludwig looked only more confused. "Gilbert, feeling sorry for them is not the same as representing them. I'm sorry you had to see the things you saw in the labs, but—to suggest that you switched_ representations?" _He scoffed._

 _"We're_ nations _, not charity organizations! We take lives in the name of victory no matter the cost—floundering in our guilt will only distract us from our goal._ You _taught me that, remember?"_

_Gilbert bared his teeth; only six months ago he would have agreed with everything his brother was saying. But Ludwig didn't understand the visions, how the fear consumed him—how big this was and how it would go down in history._

_Gilbert flung out his tattooed arm, "Then how do you explain this, huh? What the fuck does this represent?"_

_Ludwig narrowed his eyes. "A mistake. A misguided policy we can fix_ after _we win the war."_

_Gilbert scoffed. "Misguided policy; is that what they're calling mass murder nowadays? Along with 'evacuation' and 'selection,' and all the other sick euphemisms you people use to wipe your consciences clean—"_

" _Consciences?" Ludwig cut in, his voice rising. "Since when did you give a damn about what was right and wrong?"_

" _Since it affected_ me, _okay!? Since so much wrong was forced down my throat, I wanted to fucking_ die _back there! You think I want to give up my entire life's work to save a few civilians? You think if I had a choice, I wouldn't be out there on the front blowing out Communist brains!?_ _I_ wish _I could ignore it and just move on, I_ wish _I could turn the other way and pretend that millions aren't suffering at our hands! But no amount of wishing is going to change the fact that my duty is to my people, and what my people need right now is someone to drag them out of the hell we've created."_

_A fire of hurt and betrayal burned in those blue eyes. Ludwig drew himself up and strode to the bedroom door._

_"Your_ people _are the East Prussian citizens who are risking their lives to fight for their country. And before you try to disregard that, remember that I've been doing the same for you since I was born. If their sacrifices aren't enough for you to finish this war, then try thinking about the sacrifices I've made."_

_And with that, Ludwig stepped through the door and pulled it shut with a SLAM that rattled the house._

_Gilbert's eyes darted to the dresser just in time to watch the photograph of him and Ludwig topple and land face-down on the wood._

* * *

Fan art by [megz-and-peaches](https://megz-and-peaches.tumblr.com/post/183602580931/he-didnt-bother-to-knock-pushing-the-door-open)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First they came for the socialists, and I did not speak out—  
> because I was not a socialist.  
> Then they came for the trade unionists, and I did not speak out—  
> because I was not a trade unionist.  
> Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out—  
> because I was not a Jew.  
> Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.
> 
> -Martin Niemöller, Lutheran Minister and early Nazi supporter who was later imprisoned for imposing Hitler's regime. (Source: United States Holocaust Memorial Museum)
> 
> Stalin's offer in 1952 for German Unification is REAL, and the text Gilbert reads here was copied directly from the English document. I will elaborate more on the details of this offer later in the story. Thanks so much for reading!


	22. Семья — Family

Telling the truth was much easier than Toris had thought it would be.

For seven years he'd imagined telling his brothers about the deal, all the while convincing himself the consequences were worth the lie. Every time Eduard had grown frustrated, every time he saw a flicker of hurt and betrayal in Raivis's eyes, the same mantra had played in Toris's head:

_They can't know. They'll hate me for keeping secrets, for making this decision without them, for putting myself in danger._

But as it turned out… the only person Toris had been lying to, was himself. Because his brothers hadn't reacted that way _at all_ —in fact, looking back, his fears had seemed absurd.

Toris let out a breathy laugh and pushed a loose strand of hair out of his eyes with the back of his wrist, then brought his fist back down into the cast iron pot as he resumed mashing potatoes. "I don't deserve those two," he muttered.

Really, he didn't. It felt like Eduard and Raivis were always dealing with the aftermath of Toris's decisions, even if those decisions were meant to protect them.

_At least the deal is still on._

Of course it was temporary, and Toris knew that. He could see it in his brothers' eyes—a righteous anger that spelled the deal's inevitable end. With both Eduard and Raivis bedridden, they seemed willing to accept the status quo for the time being. But when it came time for the deal to end…

Toris's knees grew weak, and his head spun. He gripped the edge of the pot and forced his spiraling thoughts into submission.

_I still have time. Ivan is willing to give me a second chance. It's just a matter of letting him down slowly, without any bad surprises._

No—when it came to Ivan Braginsky, Toris had learned that surprises were very, _very_ dangerous.

He jumped when the doorbell rang.

Toris froze, arm elbow-deep in the pot as he glanced up to peer through the dining room window. Through the glass panes and lace curtains, he could make out a slick black car parked in the driveway. Toris's breath caught in his throat.

_The MGB._

He pulled the masher out of the pot with a _squelch,_ setting it on the counter and turning on the faucet as he smeared bits of potato off his hands and wrists. He dried them with his apron, reaching back only to find that his hands were shaking so much he couldn't undo the knot. Toris cursed under his breath.

_Get a grip! They're here to investigate Ivan, not me!_

He finally managed to untangle the straps of his apron, ripping it off his head and hanging it on the pantry door. Toris strode towards the foyer, running a nervous hand through his hair and straightening his uniform. Having summoned his courage, Toris pulled the door open with a rush of biting wind.

He squinted to see the faces of two men standing on Ivan's front porch.

The first met him with a sharp gaze he didn't recognize. Mercury black eyes peered from beneath the shadow of a red-banned MGB cap. His skin shone with a reddish tint, eyes and brow crinkled with creases.

The second man was taller, and while he appeared to be in his thirties his golden eyes sparked with the energy of a young soldier. Toris relaxed, if only slightly, upon recognizing the second agent as Adrik.

"Dobri den', tovarishi," he smiled. "Please, come in."

Frigid air whistled through the door as he opened it further, whipping his hair and biting his neck. Toris pushed it shut as the men stomped snow from their boots. Gloved hands unbuttoned their overcoats, and Toris took the heavy fabric and hung them on the rack by the door.

"I apologize, I'm working alone today so it will take longer than usual. Please, if you would follow me, I'll put on the tea and let Russia know that you're here, Comrade…"

"Volodin. And we will not be waiting for Russia's permission today."

Toris took a breath to ask a question but the agent cut in,

"We are here to discuss an urgent matter and must speak with him immediately."

Toris glanced to Adrik, who gave a sharp nod.

_So this really is an interrogation! And if Prussia is still in Ivan's office—!_

His excitement turned to dread—Ivan would never forgive him for leading two MGB agents to his office door without a fair warning.

"Did you hear me, nation?" the agent snapped. "If you do not take us to him, we can find our own way."

"Yes, of course, follow me."

Toris turned on his heel, trying to keep his breath steady as he led the two men though the foyer and down the halls towards Russia's office. As they neared, he strained his ears for any scratchy, accented Russian coming from inside… but there was no sign Prussia was in the room at all. Toris stopped in front of the oak doors and turned to the agents.

"Please, if you could wait here, I'll tell Russia that you'd like to speak with him—"

"We cannot allow any private communication between Russia and his subordinates." Volodin sent Toris a bitter smile as he strode past. "I'm sure you understand."

Toris opened his mouth to protest, but was helpless to stop him as the agent pushed open the great oak door.

"Comrade Braginsky!" he called, striding into the office with arms spread wide as though reuniting with an old friend.

"Comrade Volodin," came Ivan's reply. Even without seeing his master's face, Toris could hear the fake smile. "I must admit I'm surprised to see you; did my subordinates not offer enough hospitality for you to wait?"

Adrik followed his fellow agent into the room, Toris stepping in and closing the door behind him. He avoided eye contact with his master, instead sweeping his gaze across the room to see that Prussia was nowhere to be found. He frowned at the carpet stain near Ivan's desk.

_Wasn't Prussia supposed to clean that up?_

"We're not here to sip tea, Comrade. Although—" The agent glanced over his shoulder at Toris. "You there. Latvia, was it?"

"Actually it's Lithuania, Comr—"

"Yes, yes, of course. Bring us some of your best Stolichnaya, will you? There's no point in talking business with this man unless alcohol is involved; am I right Braginsky?"

Ivan's smile could chill blood. "Da, you know me too well."

He nodded at Toris, and the Lithuanian rushed to a tall cabinet intended for business meetings. Toris opened the slick mahogany doors and scanned rows of vodka labels. He pulled one from the shelf, tucking it under his arm as he took down three crystal glasses. Furniture creaked as the two agents took their seats in front of Ivan's desk.

"Comrade Shkarov, I've been awaiting your report. You escorted my Litva to Moscow yesterday, did you not?"

"That's correct."

The bottle slipped from the sweat collecting on Toris's palms. Once the MGB started asking questions about Prussia, Ivan would know Toris had leaked the information. He was grateful that Ivan made a point to ignore his presence in front of government employees; Toris could avoid that icy gaze and unwanted questions for now, at least.

He approached the side of the desk so as not to interfere, setting each glass on the wooden finish and pouring the vodka.

"I believe I explicitly asked for a report regarding Lithuania's movements. Care to explain why I have not received any calls?"

"We'll be talking about that shortly—ah, thank you, Latvia—"

" _Lithuania,"_ Ivan growled. "Latvia is smaller, like a child. Blond curly hair, eyes like mine." He reached for his vodka, violet eyes narrowing across the desk. "You can hardly count yourself a top MGB agent if you can't even remember the names of my subordinates, Comrade."

Volodin reached for his own glass and passed the other to Adrik. "Good god, Braginsky, there are fourteen of them. You really expect me to keep track? He's a Baltic State; I was close enough. Besides—" he gestured to the bloodstain on the carpet. "Seems you aren't too concerned for their well-being, anyway."

Ivan kept smiling, but Toris could see the fire burning in his eyes. He knew his master holed himself up in the mansion precisely to avoid these kinds of people.

"Litva."

Toris jumped; he hadn't expected Ivan to address him directly. "Yes sir?"

"Make sure Latvia is in his room, da? I don't want him causing any trouble for our guests."

One look, and Toris understood his master was referring to Prussia. "And… where might I find him?"

Ivan threw back a shot, setting the now empty glass on the desk with a _thump._ "I'm not sure, he ran off an hour ago. Try the back of the mansion."

Toris's eyes darted to the bloodstain. He was well familiar with the routine of slinking to the back of the mansion after these 'mishaps' in Ivan's office. Not that he cared if the ex-Nazi was beaten, of course. But with the MGB here, the last thing he needed was a half-dead Prussian to scrape off the floor.

"Thank you, sir."

Toris strode out of the room, sharing a glance with Adrik as he passed. He felt Ivan's gaze boring into the back of his head as he pulled open the office door and stepped into the light of the hallway.

Toris let out a breath he didn't know he had been holding. _The MGB is serious about this. At the very least they'll want to see Prussia… and they might even take him and Ivan to the Kremlin for questioning._ Toris knew one thing for sure: He did _not_ want his brothers involved in this. He needed to warn them of the MGB's presence in case things got out of control.

Toris broke into a jog as he neared the back of the mansion. "Prussia!" he called, to no answer. He flicked on a hall light, eyes drawn to specks of blood dotting the wooden floor. Toris bent down to see the red liquid shimmering in the light.

 _It's fresh_.

Toris looked up to see another dark patch further down the hall. "Prussia!" he called again, jogging towards the blood as he scanned for more signs of Russia's handiwork. He frowned when the trail came to an end.

A strangled moan echoed through the halls.

Toris rounded the corner, nearing an open door that led into a dark study. "Prussia?" he said, this time with caution as he stepped into the room.

The interior was choked with an inky blackness, yellow light casting long shadows across the floor. There was a jolt of movement, and Toris's eyes darted to see a figure knelt on the ground. A forearm blocked the figure's face from view, shielding his eyes. Toris struggled to make out any injuries—the only sign of blood was a small rivulet zigzagging from Prussia's temple to his chin.

"The MGB is here," Toris said, deciding it wasn't worth the time to press for answers. "Ivan wants you in your room."

Prussia's only response was to turn his head towards the ground, face hidden in shadow. Toris cursed under his breath; he didn't have time for this!

"This isn't a game, Prussia! Two of the Soviet Union's top agents are in Ivan's office as we speak _._ They'll want to see you in person; maybe even interrogate you. And if Ivan doesn't follow orders…"

Toris shuddered at the thought. His master was usually smart enough to stay within the boundaries of government regulations, but matters regarding Prussia seemed the exception to that rule. If Ivan refused to show them his latest subordinate, there could be more than just one bloodstain to clean up afterwards.

Toris folded his arms across his chest, his next words slow and deliberate: "Ivan has given me an order, and I _will_ carry it out. Do I make myself clear?"

Prussia stood, a mangled statue in the darkness, blood carving a shimmering lightning bolt down his temple.

Toris didn't bother to wait, swiveling on his heel and marching through the halls with long strides. He made sure to hear footsteps close behind him, then spelled out his plan with sharp articulation:

"You go to your room, while I warn Eduard and Raivis the MGB is here. Then you _wait—in your room with the door closed—_ until either Ivan and the MGB show up or I _explicitly_ say you can leave. If the MGB does make an appearance, you will do _exactly_ as they say, and if you so much as _allude_ to Stalin or Communism in one of your abhorrent jokes, I swear to every pagan god I know Prussia, you will regret it."

Toris was unclear on his opinion of Prussia. Eduard seemed convinced the ex-Nazi's "good deed" last night was pure charity… but even if Prussia was beginning to show some signs of humanity, that didn't change the fact that he held no respect for superiors. The learning curve in this place was a steep one, and if Prussia didn't start changing his tactless habits _right this very second_ it could spell disaster for them all.

Two pairs of boots thudded against cement as Toris raced down the stairwell and threw open the bedroom door with such force that it banged against the wall. Raivis yelped and jolted upright in bed.

"Toris? Ak dievs, you scared me!"

"Is Eduard awake?"

There was a moan from the Estonian's bed. "I am now." Eduard lifted his head from the pillow. "Raivis said he heard the doorbell ring earlier. Was that—"

"The MGB, yes. They're in Ivan's office now. Ivan ordered Prussia to stay in his room, but they'll want to see him in person. I'm going back to the office, but if you hear footsteps in the hall I want you to _keep the door closed,_ understand? Best-case scenario, they don't even realize you're here."

Eduard and Raivis nodded, then the boy's gaze drifted past Toris to the door.

"Prussia? Are you okay?"

Toris bit back a curse; did he not just order that idiot to go straight to his room!? "There was a mishap in Ivan's office," he said, not giving Prussia the chance to answer. "…which has _apparently_ damaged Prussia's hearing because I _told_ him to—"

"No," Raivis whispered, brow creasing with concern. "He's been crying."

Toris almost laughed; that sentence alone was absurd.

"What are you talking about, he—"

But he stopped short when he saw an astonished look on Eduard's face as well. Slowly, Toris turned to face the Prussian standing by the doorway.

Nose and cheeks were flushed red, eyes bloodshot and puffy. His lips weren't pulled into the usual condescending smirk, but had fallen into a tight line. And there, shimmering in the dim light of the bedroom, were tracks of tears.

Toris stared, unable to believe his eyes. _Prussia… crying?_ The concept didn't even compute in his head, let alone the image he was seeing before him. _Is this some kind of joke?_

Prussia kept his eyes downcast, unaware of the three nations gaping at him.

"Gilbert."

At the sound of his name, crimsons snapped up to lock eyes with Eduard.

"What happened?"

Toris huffed in frustration; this was all very interesting but they could talk about it later. "We don't have time for this, you need to get to your room before—"

"I'm sorry."

The words were thick and cracked, but they had definitely come from Prussia. Toris blinked at the ex-Nazi.

"What?"

"I—I'm sorry you have to live like this."

Toris exchanged glances with his brothers to see they were equally shocked. Prussia continued, his voice a grinding grate:

"It was my idea to split up the Commonwealth. I could give you the reasons, but I'm sure you had to stand there while some bureaucrat in tights read them to you." Bloodshot eyes flicked in Raivis's direction. "Latvia, I don't even remember seeing you at the meeting. But… you must've been standing by Russia, ja? You were his slice of the pie. We had drawn it out that way. Like a fucking cake."

Prussia swallowed. "That's what gave me the idea in '39. I knew Russia was pissed you three were independent. I figured, if we could give him back his cake to chew on, he'd leave us alone just long enough to barrel through the rest of the continent. Just… toss some bait to the monster, make him look the other way."

He grimaced. "That's what you were to me—just pretty pawns on my master chess board. And you'd think seven years in the dungeon would have changed that, but it didn't. I thought—that you didn't even deserve to be nations. That you were better off letting Russia run the show because at least he's strong enough to defend himself."

"And yet…" Prussia's eyes rose to meet the Baltics. "You—you kept saying my people needed me, even when I screamed in your faces that they were dead. You stitched up my wounds and literally gave me the clothes off your backs. You answered all my questions, you stepped in to save me when Russia was seconds away from turning me into mincemeat. You gave me beer and pain pills and cigarettes."

He scoffed. "It doesn't sound like much; hell, it didn't feel like much. But—but what have you got to _give?_ This cardboard box of a room, a few extra uniforms, some books that aren't even in your own languages? How can you do that? How can you want to _help_ me after—" Prussia pressed a hand to his mouth and his voice cracked, "Do you realize how many people died?"

Toris finally understood what felt so familiar about this situation. Just over a century ago, he had been in Prussia's shoes. He had made the same teary apology to his brothers, begging them to forgive him for running away. His guilt had been real at the time… but that didn't stop him from running away again, knowing full well they would suffer.

If it had taken Toris over sixty _years_ to change, there was no possible way Prussia could have done it in twenty-four hours.

Toris crossed his arms; there was an easy way to prove his theory. "If you could give us back our lives with the knowledge you have now, would you have done it?"

Prussia sniffed and smeared his cheek with the heel of his palm. "No."

"Knowing what happened to the Jews, would you have called off the invasion?"

"No."

Toris scoffed; so he was right. "If you wouldn't change your decisions then, how can you expect us to believe you've changed now? You may feel 'guilty' for bargaining us away, but you wouldn't hesitate to do it tomorrow if it meant getting your old power back." He narrowed his eyes at the Prussian. "There's no time to throw a pity party. We need to leave, _now."_

Prussia didn't budge from his position by the door.

"No, you're right. I'm selfish enough that I would keep those decisions, because I'm a power-hungry bastard to the bone. But now that I've been stripped down to nothing, the only nations in the world who can possibly help me, are the nations who suffered from those decisions."

Prussia gave a pained smile. "Saying sorry won't change anything. It won't change what's happened to you, or the conditions you live in. And I'm only apologizing because I need something from you, and that's the only way I can see how to get it." He laughed bitterly. "That's the kind of selfish bastard I am. I hate apologizing because it's so _useless_ , but—" He looked up at Eduard and Raivis, his next words almost a plea. "What else can I _do?"_

The walls vibrated with heavy footsteps.

Toris grabbed Prussia's wrist, "We've got to get out of here!"

But he knew it was too late; the door was open and the agents were already coming down the stairs. Toris’s hand tightened around Prussia's wrist, frozen in fear as the footsteps grew louder.

Moments later Volodin strode into the room. The huge form of Ivan shouldered in afterwards, followed by Adrik.

Toris snatched his hand away from Prussia, trying to calm his breathing. The MGB was _here_ , in the Baltics' _bedroom,_ and there was nothing he could do about it.

"Which one is he?" Volodin asked, sharp gaze darting from Eduard to Raivis. His expression was predatory, as if observing objects to be owned.

"The albino," was Ivan's gruff answer.

It didn't take long for the agent to locate the only white-haired nation in the room. Prussia sent him a glare chilled by the bloodshot color of his eyes. Volodin's only reaction was to raise one eyebrow.

"And he stays in this room?"

"Nyet, his is the one down the hall."

Toris looked over Ivan's shoulder to catch a glance from Adrik, hoping to get some hint as to what would happen. But the agent wasn't looking at him; instead he stood frozen by the doorway, jaw slack as he stared at Prussia.

"You, German," Volodin snapped. "You speak Russian, yes?"

"He speaks," Ivan answered, not giving Prussia the opportunity to shoot a smart remark.

"Good. Then I will make this as clear and efficient as I can." The agent sent a stern look around the room. "Upon being informed that the nation representative of the GDR has been held captive at the Soviet Estate for the last seven years, the MGB has been authorized to take permanent custody."

Toris's eyes widened. _Permanent?_

"Comrade Braginsky has agreed this is the best course of action, given GDR's poor training and lack of Communist education. All housing arrangements, meals, training, and uniforms will be provided by the MGB. GDR will be transferred from the Soviet Estate to a government-sanctioned living space near MGB headquarters."

Toris couldn't believe it. The government was offering to take Prussia off Ivan's hands—just like that?

"Due to certain infractions, Comrade Braginsky has lost the authority to finalize decisions regarding GDR. However, protocol requires the approval of a nation representative. Thus, word of approval then falls to his subordinates."

Toris shared a shocked glance with his brothers. _No way. We get to decide?_

"Nation representatives of the Soviet Socialist Republics of Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania. Do you concede custody of the representative of GDR to the MGB?"

The panic that had gripped Toris's chest evaporated with a sigh of relief. Ever since Prussia's release, life in the mansion had been a virtual nightmare. Toris's relationship with Ivan was all but destroyed, he'd been forced to face unpleasant memories from his past, the house had been trashed not once but _twice,_ and his brothers were beaten senseless. Every passing hour had presented more problems, each more hectic than the last.

One look at Ivan, and Toris knew his master was thinking the same thing: _The second Prussia leaves this house, it will be as if the past few days never even happened._

It was laughably easy. All it would take was one word to make Prussia, and the whirlwind of chaos that surrounded him, vanish into thin air. The ex-Nazi would walk out of this house between two MGB agents, and Toris would never have to hear that scratchy voice or cackling laugh again.

Toris took a breath to give his answer, but was interrupted by another voice:

"No."

All heads in the room turned towards Raivis. The boy stood with his bandaged head held high, hands clenched into fists at his sides. His voice wavered as he continued, "You said the decision falls on us, right? So… if we say we want him here, he has to stay here."

Toris sucked in a gasp and snapped his head towards Ivan.

The Russian had turned _white._

His broad chest rose in a frozen gasp, wide eyes flickering with a primal fear Toris had only glimpsed briefly during flashbacks.

During the sixteen years of their romantic relationship, Ivan had poured out his soul to Toris. Every last detail of his twisted past left no room to the imagination. Even after the war, Toris would be the first to admit that Ivan Braginsky had suffered through more hell than any other nation who walked the face of the earth. Not a _single_ human invention or terror could frighten him, except for one thing:

The prospect of his family being taken away.

And in that moment—in that split second of a reaction only Toris saw—he understood what was at stake. The MGB had no plans to house, or feed, or even train Prussia. This was a deportation, simple as that. And if Toris and his brothers didn't play along with the game, they would be packed into a cattle car right alongside him.

Ivan let out a deep chuckle, quick to repair the crack in his mask. "Pay no attention to Latvia, Comrades, he often says these ridiculous things—"

"No." Eduard pushed himself up with his elbows, sending Volodin a stern gaze over his glasses. "Latvia speaks for all of us. We want Gilbert to stay."

Toris nearly choked. Surely _Eduard_ was smart enough to realize the implications, here? No one-day-old "friendship" with Prussia was worth swinging a pickaxe for the rest of their lives!

Volodin seemed perturbed by Eduard's answer, but this only lasted a moment before he turned to Toris. "Lithuania," he said, getting his name right for the first time that day. "Do you concede custody of GDR to the MGB?"

Toris's eyes darted from Volodin, to Adrik, and then to Ivan. The look in his master's eyes was not an order, nor a threat—it was a plea. This wasn't about the deal anymore. This was about Ivan's _family_ —the very thing he had fought years of brutal warfare to protect. And if Toris refused to approve the MGB's decision, Ivan could lose it all in a single day.

"Toris, proszę. Zaufaj nam."

The air temperature dropped, and Ivan rounded on Raivis like a loaded pistol. Sirens screeched in Toris's head:

_Polish!? POLISH!? …Oh dieve Raivis—!_

"What did he say?" Volodin snapped.

"He said 'please trust us!'" Toris cried, almost answering in Polish himself as his brain melted down and all the languages he knew came flying in at once.

Volodin curled a lip. "If I'm not mistaken, use of native subordinate languages is forbidden in the Soviet Estate. Unless, of course, Comrade Braginsky has been failing to enforce that rule."

"I _haven't,"_ Ivan growled.

Toris's throat clogged when he realized his master's arm was resting inside his coat, no doubt curling around the pipe. The fabric of Ivan's uniform quivered; the Russian was barely holding his temper in check. A wild look shot Toris's direction burned with urgency:

_Just do what they say, Litva!_

Toris ripped his gaze away from Ivan to face his brothers.

Raivis stood, fists trembling at his sides, eyes squeezed shut to brace himself for the blow he knew would come. Eduard's gaze cut into Toris like ice over his glasses.

_What do I do? What do I do!?_

If Toris disobeyed Ivan, it would shatter any remaining shard of trust between them and trigger repercussions for over a century. And if Toris disobeyed the MGB, he and his brothers could be on a train to Siberia by tomorrow.

Despair rose in Toris's throat. He was so tired of being at fault. He was _so tired,_ of seeing stitches on Raivis's scalp, or stripes on Eduard's back, and feeling as thoughhe had put them there. And now they were asking him to make a decision which would cause them even more pain? Was a hundred and twenty _years_ not enough?

_Toris, please. Trust us._

It made no sense. It defied every rule, to throw all caution to the wind in the name of saving a nation who had ravaged their countries with violence. But if Raivis had risked so much to speak Polish, if even _Eduard_ agreed with this decision…

Could Toris face them if he said yes?

_Could I face Ivan if I say no?_

Toris's voice wavered as he looked Ivan straight in the eye.

"I do not give approval. Prussia stays."

Toris watched the Russian's expression fall into a look of betrayal. It only lasted a split second before Ivan wrestled the reaction under control, setting his jaw into a steely glare.

Toris closed his eyes let out a shaky breath through his nose. _It's done. There's no turning back now._

He was snapped from his thoughts by Volodin's deep voice, "I see."

The agent give a sharp nod to Adrik. This seemed to be some kind of signal—Adrik strode out of the bedroom door, throwing one last glance back at Prussia. Volodin cleared his throat and addressed the five nations,

"As Latvia stated, the decision is up to you. Being the unanimous choice, GDR will remain at the Soviet Estate." He smirked at Ivan. "You have quite the determined trio here, Braginsky. It would be a shame had the stakes been higher than a mere housing arrangement. Comrade Shkarov!" The bark was loud enough to be heard from the hallway.

"Yes, Comrade Volodin!"

"We're leaving!" Dark eyes swept around the room, this time with contempt. "There's no reason to stay in this place any longer. Please, Comrade, if you would see us out."

"Da," Ivan said, this time unable to produce a fake smile.

Footsteps thudded through the floor as the agent strode out, but Ivan stopped in the doorway. Toris held his breath, ready to spring to his brothers' protection if a pipe or whip came flying from the folds of that coat.

"It seems we have a new addition to our family, da?" Ivan turned to face Prussia, lips pulled into a strained smile. "Welcome to the Soviet Union, _GDR_."

With a flourish Ivan swiveled on his heel and marched into the hall, and Adrik's quick footsteps could be heard as he jogged to catch up. Low voices faded up the staircase, becoming inaudible mumbles as they neared the foyer.

Toris swore he could hear a _click_ of chains being unlocked and a rattle as they crashed to the floor.

He felt free, but terrified, naked, like he had stumbled outside for the first time. An impossible weight, one he didn't even know was there, had simply lifted. He let out a vocal gasp and pressed a hand to his mouth.

 _What did I just_ do!?

Raivis stepped towards him, hands outstretched as if comforting a wild animal. "Hey, it's okay—"

It was all happening so fast, Toris couldn't even name what he was feeling, he was _losing control,_ and all of those emotions translated into rage.

"Are you mad?" Toris whispered, barely able to keep his voice from rising with hysteria. "What—what were you thinking? Defying Ivan _and_ the MGB—just to save _him?"_

He threw an arm in the direction of Prussia, who looked just as stunned as the agents had a moment ago. "Do you realize what life will be like for us now!? The deal is as good as dead, and if the MG—!"

"The deal was going to collapse anyway."

Eduard shot Toris a stern look. "Raivis and I talked about it, and we both agree you can't go on being a slave to Russia on our behalf. If that means life goes back to the way it was, then so be it. We're willing to share that burden equally."

"But—but why do that now? Why make that decision now, to save _him?"_

"Because he apologized," Raivis said.

" _Apologized?"_ Toris scoffed. "Raivis, an apology will not bring back the dead! An 'apology' will not change the fact that he sold us to Russia like damn property _twice,_ that it's because of HIM that we've been trapped in this place for two centuries! Whatever happened to wanting to speak your own language, or see your people, or sing traditional songs? Weren't you just saying how you hate it here, how useless you feel because you're helpless while so many of your people die—"

"I _do_ hate it here!" Raivis shouted, voice breaking with the sudden volume. "I—I-I hate it here. And I want to go home. I want to speak my own language and breathe my own air and—and get to see just—just _one_ Latvian…"

He looked at Prussia. "And I know that if it weren't for you—if you hadn't sold us to Russia—then I could do all of those things. I wouldn't be here in this room, with these stupid bandages around my head knowing that Russia is probably going to come down those stairs again and crush my skull into tiny little pieces.

"And—and I know an apology can't change any of that. It can't launch us back in time and fix all the things that were broken, it can't save the lives of all of the people I watched die in the streets of Riga, or in that burning synagogue."

Raivis laughed and the tears spilled over, rolling down his cheeks. "But it's not supposed to! Forgiveness works because we _can't_ go back, because even when all the shit you did really hurt us, and will keep hurting us, we can still love you. Not because we forgot everything you did, or because it hurts less now that you've apologized. But, because—"

Raivis smiled at Prussia even as the salty streams collected into droplets on his chin.

"Because we _forgive_ you."

The floor opened up beneath Toris, and suddenly he was falling through time. His eyes fluttered open to feel the cool of bathroom tile beneath his knees, the metallic taste of blood in his mouth. Two voices echoed from the hallway:

" _Are you crazy!? Just because Lithuania apologized, it doesn't mean he won't turn around and abandon us! He did it before, he'll do it again!"_

The low timbre of Eduard's voice cut through the memory:

"I know we're not the ideal 'family.' We're not blood-related, we don't even speak each other's languages and we disagree on almost everything. We live in a horrible place and have to make hard decisions every day to protect each other. Most of the world doesn't even know we exist, and those that do either see us as subordinates to be conquered or victims to be pitied."

A bitter smile crossed Eduard's face. "It sounds like the last family any nation would want to be a part of, but it's how we've been able to survive all these years. I won't say 'Welcome to the Soviet Union'…" Eduard glanced to Raivis as if asking for help. "In fact I'm not even sure what to say; we don't really have a name for it. But since you're going to be staying here, then you're welcome to be a part of it—our family, that is."

_The higher pitch of Latvia's voice echoed through the walls:_

" _I know that! But look at him, Eduard—he doesn't have anything to run back to! Yeah, he abandoned us, to fight for his people, just like a nation should! Lithuania knows he can't win a third time. He's lost everything; we're the only ones left to pick up the pieces."_

" _And who was there to pick up_ our _pieces, Raivis? Just a week ago, you were clinging to me in that dungeon and sobbing. And now you're saying you want to_ pretend _like he's our brother?"_

Toris watched as Prussia stared wide-eyed, mouth hanging open as his eyes darted from Eduard, to Raivis, and then back. And then his brows pressed together, lips pulled into a grimace, and tears welled up in his eyes. He pressed shaking hands to his mouth, then sank to his knees.

Raivis crossed the room and knelt in front of the Prussian.

"Hey," he whispered. "It's okay. It’s not like we're replacing Germany or anything, right? When you gain your independence, you can go see him! And you can introduce him to us, and we can all go out in the city together and get käsespätzle—"

Raivis was cut off by a loud, gasping sob.

"Prussia?"

The boy yelped as Prussia pulled him to his chest, pale hands balling the red fabric of his nightshirt. A wail of anguish was muffled into fabric, as Prussia's shoulders lurched and tears fell to spread in dark blotches on the boy's shoulders.

" _It's only 'pretending' if you want it to be," Latvia shot back. "This isn't about getting even, this is about doing what's right. You're free to make your own choice about that, Eduard. But I've already made mine."_

_Footsteps neared the bathroom, then the door creaked open. Toris looked up with a startled glance, blood-crusted bangs falling into his eyes. Bare feet slapped on the tile and Latvia knelt in front of him to place a hand on his shoulder._

" _Hey… Lithuania? You don't have to call me Latvia anymore. You can call me Raivis, okay? We're brothers now."_

* * *

The car shuddered with a door slam as Volodin ducked into his seat.

"Well that was a waste of time," he growled, tapping the steering wheel with a thumb. "I thought you said the nations wanted Prussia dead."

"That's what Lithuania told me yesterday," Adrik murmured, staring out the windshield at the snow-laden exterior of the mansion. Icicles clung to the roof and windows, glinting in the silver afternoon light. "Maybe they've changed their minds."

"That's an awful big change of opinion for one day," Volodin growled as he turned on the ignition and threw the car into gear. Snow crunched beneath the wheels as it rolled down the winding road, towards the iron gate marking the entrance to Russia's property.

Adrik frowned, remembering the desperation he'd seen in Lithuania's eyes as the nation was forced to make his choice. "I think Lithuania still stood by his statement—he seemed ready to give Prussia over. But his brothers convinced him not to."

"Damn them," Volodin cursed, voice broken by the jolt of the car as they drove through the gate. "Now we have to explain to Ignatev why this just got ten times more difficult than it needed to be. Did you find the room?"

"Yes, there's a small barred window near the ceiling."

"Great; that changes the probability of success from impossible to nearly impossible." Volodin's lips curled into a smirk. "By the way. I saw you gawking at GDR—you got a thing for albinos, Shkarov?"

The joke was lost on Adrik as his eyes flicked across the trees lining the fence to Russia's property. _Could it really be him?_ he wondered, breath fogging up the window.

"What was that? His bright ruby eyes swept you off your feet?"

Adrik scowled at his partner, "I think you've had too much vodka. Maybe I should drive."

Volodin chuckled. "It's a good thing GDR won't be staying at HQ, yeah? It would be too tempting—"

"Shut up, will you?"

Adrik's stomach twisted with dread. If the nation representative of GDR—or more importantly, _Prussia_ —was the man he thought he was, reporting his existence to the MGB had been a terrible mistake.

 _I swore to repay my debt,_ he thought, glancing in the rearview to watch the mansion fade into the whiteness of winter. _But would I, if it meant losing all of this?_

* * *

Fan art by [zeawezumprussia](https://zeawezumprussia.tumblr.com/post/181794846535/finally-finished-i-had-decided-on-which-scene-to)

* * *

HISTORY NOTES 

**Partitions of Poland**

The Partitions of Poland took place over the course of 23 years. The first of these was in 1772, from which the Russian Empire received what is now Eastern Latvia. During this time, Raivis would have lived at home and reported both to the Russian and Polish-Lithuanian governments. 1795 was the last partition, from which the Russian Empire received the remainder of present-day Latvia and Lithuania. This is the point at which Raivis and Toris would have moved to Saint Petersburg. During the time of the Partitions, Estonia was already a part of the Russian Empire, since Peter the Great had conquered the area from Sweden in the Great Northern War in 1721. Thus, Eduard would have lived in Tallinn for 51 years under Russian rule until the partitions were complete.

**Date of Gilbert's Escape from the Labs**

Ludwig rescued Gilbert from the Nazi labs in December of 1941. The major Einsatzgruppen killing operations took place in 1941. Thus, by the time Gilbert escaped from the labs and started rescuing Jews, most of the Jews living in the Baltic States had already been murdered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These panels are from an incredible fan art by zeawezumprussia! Click the link for the full piece. 
> 
> Thanks for reading, and comments are much loved!


	23. Liivakell — Hourglass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Russians call each other by a combination of first names and patronymics, last names, and diminutives depending on how formal or informal they are being. This chapter includes several Russian characters, so here is a list to help keep track: 
> 
> [Ivan Zimavich] Braginsky (Vanya)
> 
> [Boris Leonidovich] Pasternak (Borya)
> 
> [Olga Vsevolodovna] Ivinskaya (Olya)
> 
> [Anna Andreevna] Akhmatova (Anya)
> 
> (Lyova) – Akhmatova's son
> 
> There are a TON of history notes, but I ask that you please take the time to read them. This chapter is not nearly as powerful if you don't know these figures' incredible stories. Thanks for reading, and please enjoy!

Eduard watched as the confusion and twisted anger on Toris's face fell into a stunned calm of realization. Standing there watching Gilbert sob into Raivis's shoulder, Toris looked as though he had seen a ghost.

A shared glance with Raivis, and the boy seemed to read his mind.

"Hey," he said, untangling himself from a blubbering Gilbert. "Let's go to your room, okay?"

Gilbert nodded, smearing the tears from his eyes even as more kept rolling down his face. The two nations stood and left the room, and the hallway echoed with the _click_ of Gilbert's door pulling shut.

Toris didn't move.

He resembled a statue, frozen as he stared wide-eyed into a void only he could see.

Eduard's gaze followed his brother as he crossed the room and fell onto his bed with the creak of mattress springs. Toris rested his elbows on his knees, trembling fingers raking his hair flat against his forehead. Green eyes flickered back and forth across the same spot on the floor like a broken film reel.

When Toris finally spoke, his voice wavered with a vulnerability Eduard had never heard before:

"I think… I've been wrong."

Eduard didn't say anything. He wanted to let Toris work this out.

"I thought… I… _owed_ you?" Toris's voice cracked as he struggled to put his thoughts into words. "Like I had to work really hard to earn something—"

"Love isn't something you earn, Toris."

Toris looked up from his knees, hair falling into his face. Shimmering eyes and parted lips begged a plea he didn't have to ask out loud:

_Help me._

And something inside Eduard broke, because it was not every day that Toris Laurinaitis asked for help.

He wished he had the strength to cross the room and grab Toris by the shoulders like he had done in the kitchen, because this was so important. Eduard rose on his elbows, holding his brother in a sharp gaze that dared him to look away.

_Are you listening to me, Toris? Can you shut out the lies, just for the minute it will take me to tell you the truth?_

Toris stilled. Chapped lips closed, and thin fingers curled into fists on his knees.

"When you told us what happened in '46, I was _pissed;_ do you know why?"

Toris swallowed.

"Because when Belarus left you, you didn't go to us for help. You went to Russia."

Toris closed his eyes and exhaled, as if accepting a punishment he had _expected—_ and that reaction just infuriated Eduard more.

"It didn't make any sense to me. All day, I've been running it through trying to figure out what the _hell_ was going through your head that day. What kind of sick lie had you been believing, to make you think you couldn't come to us—to think _Russia_ was a better option? And then I realized the next question: How _long_ had you been believing that lie?

"So I traced it back. At first I thought, maybe it started around 1920. You fought to claw your way to independence, defeating two of the greatest powers in the East. By the time the smoke cleared, you had lost your capital, your relationship with Poland was in ruins, and you just needed to get away from it all. So you went to America.

"In your letters, you wrote that you were worried Raivis and I felt you had abandoned us. But we didn't, because we knew you needed a break from the two people in your life who were trying to control you. We _told_ you that, _multiple_ times, you had _no_ reason to feel guilty for leaving.

"So then I thought, maybe it was later, in the 30's. The three of us lived apart, so we didn't see each other as often. But that wasn't anyone's fault; it's just part of being independent. Not only that, but you were our closest ally during those times. Never once did you belittle us, or treat us as 'inexperienced' nations. Raivis and I could only _wish_ the international community had the same respect for us that you did.

"So… if not then, maybe it had been in 1940, when the three of us moved to Moscow? Thousands of our people were deported that year, and Raivis and I lost hope. But you didn't. Not when Russia told you that Poland was dead, not when he locked you in the dungeon for weeks. When you emerged from that hell, Raivis and I expected you to be broken—but instead you promised us that we would escape. 'The Nazis are coming' you said. 'That's when we'll have our chance.' And some days, Toris, your determination was the only thing that kept us going.

"It was just as you said: the Nazis came, and we escaped. By the time Raivis and I arrived in Berlin, you were spending every second at Poland's side helping him fight to stay alive. Then Belarus arrived, beaten and starved, and you somehow managed to balance taking care of both of them—even when _your_ people were being slaughtered just like everyone else's.

"In the midst of all that, you and Poland planned _another_ escape. But returning to Lithuania was only the beginning. You worked like mad to set up partisan chains, writing us encoded letters and telegrams to coordinate evacuations, lines of communication, and supplies. You called the British, American and French embassies _every day_ to push for independence, you flooded America with telegrams until you booked a personal meeting with his _President_ to try and negotiate a way out of the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact.

"The first time we saw you since the escape was in Potsdam. The Allies didn't grant us independence. Two days later, you and Russia made a deal.

"I saw the look on your face at that party, Toris. From the moment you declared your independence in 1918 until the day you made the deal, you never stopped fighting. The Whites, the Soviets, the Poles, the Nazis—you fought and you fought and you fought. And maybe, when it all amounted to nothing, you gave up. Maybe you felt as though not only had you failed your own people, but us, too.

"And so you went to Belarus. And when she left you, you went to Russia. _Anyone_ but us, right? Because you hurt us. And we hate you for it. And we would never forgive you for it. And you sit there, and you tell yourself these things, you let them run like mantras inside of your head, and your scars don't heal, and you keep secrets, and Toris, I stand here and watch you _rot_ from the inside out, and it _pisses me off._ Do you know why?"

"I—"

"Because every last bit of it is shit, it's _not_ true, you aren't responsible for a _single thing_ that has happened to us since 1920; in fact it's the opposite. Because while the rest of us were only looking out for ourselves, you put yourself on the line again and again to serve other people, to plan escapes, to ram negotiations, to make deals that sacrificed everything you had spent decades fighting for _just in the name of keeping us safe—_ and you don't get a drop of payback for any of it.

"You're amazing Toris, and I refuse to sit here and let you chain yourself to poisonous people and go around justifying it because it's what you 'deserve.'"

Toris's lip trembled. "But… you can _say_ all of that, and I can _know_ it, but it won't change how I _feel—_ "

"How you feel is never a reflection of your worth. You can slave away trying to 'earn' our forgiveness, but you never had to do that because we love you and no amount of slaving will make us love you any more or less than we already do."

And then the expression on Toris's face began to change.

The wrinkles creasing his brow smoothed into a look of wonder. A new light seemed to come over the Lithuanian, and suddenly he looked so _young_. His spine straightened and his shoulders pulled back and his chest rose with a slow intake of air.

And for a second Eduard could have sworn the LSSR no longer existed. There, sitting in front of him, was the Grand Duchy of Lithuania. Eduard wanted to freeze that moment and take a picture, just to show Toris how beautiful he looked.

"Um… guys?"

Eduard tore his gaze away from the Duchy to see Raivis standing in the doorway.

"Don't you think it's weird Russia hasn't come back downstairs yet?"

Toris blinked rapidly, as if emerging from a daze. Wisps of hair brushed his shoulders as he shook his head, muttering the one word he seemed to catch: "Ivan…"

Eduard hated hearing that name on his lips. The light from a moment ago faded like a darkening theater—Toris shrank into himself, the worries of the world etching shadows into his face.

Raivis, of course, was oblivious to this. Seeing that nobody in the room had an answer to his question, he rocked back on his heels and said,

"I have an idea. What if I go upstairs and ask him?"

That got his brothers' attention. Eduard and Toris both sputtered in their own languages, "What!?"

"We can't just sit here forever and wait for him to drag us to the dungeon."

"Raivis, _no—"_

"It'll just take a second; I'll come back and let you know what he says."

For a moment Eduard forgot the stripes in his back as he tried to get up. "Toris, don't let him—"

The Lithuanian jumped up from his bed, but the boy had already darted out of the room. The two older Baltics gaped at the door as the slap of bare feet faded up the stairs. Toris made to run after him, but Eduard let out a strangled moan as he pushed himself up with a shaking elbow.

" _Don't!_ Don't follow him…"

Toris turned back with a look of panic. "But Raivis—"

"Do _not_ go up there, Toris." Eduard glared at his brother, teeth clenched at the flames licking his back. "You've done enough. Raivis—can handle it."

The pained expression on Toris's face was torn between the instinct to protect Raivis and the knowledge that facing Russia was much too dangerous. Eduard collapsed onto the bed in relief when his brother gave up the chase. Toris leaned against the doorjamb, nails digging into his arms as he chewed a lip.

They waited.

Not even a minute passed before footsteps pattered down the staircase, and Raivis burst through the door.

"Russia—isn't here," he panted.

Eduard rose on his elbows. "What?"

"He—he left this." Raivis crossed the room and handed Eduard a piece of paper. His eyes widened at the words scrawled in sloppy Russian across the page:

_Have dinner ready. I'll be back at 19.00_

* * *

_My Dear Rus,_

_I'm sure you have heard, that Boris Leonidovich had a heart attack this week. I am coming to Moscow to visit him in the hospital. It has been so long since we last spoke, I would very much like to see you (I will be staying in Peredelkino)_

— _Anya_

Writers were easy to find in Russia because they were always together.

Ivan found this to be particularly true since his country had become Communist. Stalin was even more obsessed with his writers than the tsars before him, and as a result each was a member of the Union of Soviet Writers and all somehow managed to conglomerate together—in government-assigned neighborhoods in the suburbs of Moscow, in communal apartments in the charred ruins of Leningrad, or in hostels tucked in the deserts of Uzbekistan.

Peredelkino was one such place.

It was Gorky who had suggested giving the land to the Union, after which fifty dachas were built and the property was subsequently distributed to the writers by the State. The Writers' Village, it was called, and it was in many ways Ivan's second home.

The car curved with the winding lane, flanked by wintry walls of snow-dusted birch and fir trees. Ivan squinted through the fogged windshield to make out a wooden cottage nestled within the forest. It was quite the accommodation for a society in which neighbors reported each other with the motivation of obtaining an apartment—or a room in an apartment, anyway—but these houses weren't just built for the average Soviet citizen.

These were the _writers,_ and their pens held every bit as much power as the General Secretary's signature.

The car slowed as Ivan neared the driveway. A thick layer of snow blanketed the steep rooftops, cylindrical structure of auburn slats reflecting the forest in two rows of windows. Ivan gathered his coat and stepped out of the car, slamming the door shut with the crack of ice. His boots crunched in the snow as he trudged through a worn path up the sidewalk leading to the back of the dacha. He ran a hand along the stair railing, snow scattering at the disturbance of his gloves. Wood creaked beneath his weight as Ivan ducked into a covered porch. His breath condensed in misty puffs as he gave the door three sharp knocks.

Ivan licked his chapped lips, rubbing his gloves together and glancing over his shoulder at the trees. He turned at the click of a lock, and the door was answered by an old woman.

She wore a plain grey dress, dark wispy hair pulled into a loose bun. Wrinkles carved half-moons beneath pale blue eyes, neck and arms thick with a doughy weight.

Ivan always found himself startled when he met her, as if expecting her to retain her thin figure, smooth skin, and jet black hair.

But poets, unlike their poetry, cannot last forever.

Ivan quickly removed his hat, aware that his hair was matted with sweat. "Anna Andreevna," he said, pressing the hat to his chest as he dipped his waist in a bow.

"Vanya!" the woman cried, voice breathy with an excitement which seemed much too vigorous for her age—until those pale blue eyes rested on his face, and her expression changed entirely.

"Come, come," she urged, grabbing Ivan by the sleeve and pulling him into the house. She threw a sharp glance to the left, the right, then closed the door behind him. They exchanged a few kisses on the cheek before she was giving him the usual orders:

"Take off your coat, Vanya, put it there—and your boots, your boots! The tapochki are here, you wait while I'll get the tea—" and then she was off to the kitchen, leaving Ivan alone to delayer by the door.

As he reached to hang up his coat, something rubbed against his legs. Ivan looked down to see the curvature of a black cat, its tail flicking across his calves. A head darted upwards to stare at him with lemon drop eyes.

"Privyet, Margot."

The cat meowed in response; not so much a greeting as a complaint. Ivan crouched to his knees, pulling off a glove before smoothing his hand down the cat's head all the way to the tip of her tail. She stretched her neck, and the soft rumble of a purr vibrated against his fingers as he rubbed the back of her ears and beneath her chin.

"You must be missing your master, da, Margot? Does Anya feed you?"

A dejected meow.

Ivan knew this house well. It was the residence of none other than Boris Leonidovich, another one of Russia's greatest poets. But Boris Leonidovich had a heart attack this week, and he was in the hospital.

Ivan rose to his feet and slipped on the tapochki. He walked past the wall of coats and took a right into the dining area, Margot padding after him. A wide curtained window offered a view of the icy forest, and a simple light fixture hung from the ceiling.

"How is our Borya?" he asked offhandedly, executing some footwork to weave around Margot as he took a seat at the table.

"He's not dead," Anna Andreevna said as she came into the room carrying two cups of steaming tea. She set one in front of Ivan with the _clink_ of porcelain on wood. She lowered herself into the chair opposite of him, opening a tin container and placing cookies onto a plate which she pushed into the center of the table.

"The doctors say he'll be discharged in a few weeks. I told him he should take better care of himself—he's supporting Olya's family with the little money he has, and he writes like a man possessed."

Olga Vsevolodovna was Pasternak's lover. It had now been over four years since her arrest, which meant only one year left of her five-year sentence to hard labor. But like most citizens accused of violating Article 58, her sentence would likely be extended. Ivinskaya had been a rare case in which Ivan personally intervened in her trials, explaining to Stalin at length why she was innocent.

_She is in love with a poet, that is all, tell me how this is a crime!_

But as usual, Ivan's pleas only hardened the General Secretary's resolve. He would never forget the day Pasternak received word Ivinskaya had been deported. Before Ivan's very eyes, Russia's most distinguished poet had openly wept and declared it a punishment worse than death.

"He hasn't received much support from the Writers Union, either," Anna Andreevna added, taking a pastry from the plate. "They say his novel is colorless, a failure—unworthy of him. But Boris Leonidovich doesn't care; he writes like a madman."

"I liked it," Ivan said, as if his opinion meant anything.

"That's exactly what I mean. _You_ like it, so _they_ won't."

Ivan frowned, disliking the idea of more censorship. Pasternak had only given him a few excerpts of his novel-in-progress to read, but it had captivated Ivan from the beginning. It followed a poet during the Revolution, and involved a passionate love affair. There couldn't be any subject matter more Russian than that.

"I want it published," he said, raising the teacup to his lips.

"Ivan Zimavich, you want everything published."

And Ivan had to smile at that, because it was true.

The Writers Union had not been kind to Akhmatova, either. The legend from Leningrad has essentially been written off as unpatriotic, and although the whole of Russia adored her, children only learned about her through the scathing critiques of textbooks. Her ration card had been taken away, and at age sixty-three she now lived in poverty. In a sense Anna Andreevna had been adopted by her friends and family who supported her. Ivan himself had sent her a pair of boots in the mail; he had seen them by the door when he came in.

But poverty only emphasized her dignified impression—her low, quiet voice and the slow movement of her hands spoke of a woman raised in the high culture of Leningrad—a ghost of the aristocracy Ivan had cut out of himself with a bloodied knife.

"But you didn't come here to ask about Pasternak, did you? You didn't even come here to ask about me."

Ivan lowered his gaze to the table. Anna Andreevna had a prophetic aura about her. She always saw right through his masks, as if centuries of crafting his persona had resulted in nothing more than a paper-thin wall, which every second she punched holes through with her eyes and her voice and her poetry.

"Rus," she said softly, using the name she and other poets used to refer to their nation in verse. Blue eyes well familiar with suffering locked onto his own. "Who was taken?"

And Ivan began to cry.

He rested his elbows on the table, digging palms into his eyes as the hot salt betrayed his humanity, leaking out from behind his wrists and dripping down his arms. Anna Andreevna didn't say anything, and he felt the soft brush of a cat rubbing against his leg.

At last Ivan managed to choke behind his hands, "Nobody yet. It was just an investigation. But they could be arresting all three of them as we speak…"

"Are your sisters safe?"

Ivan's throat clogged with a gasp; he hadn't thought of that. "I think so. I don't—they never mentioned… oh, fuck." His teeth bared into a grimace, hands balling into fists. " _Fuck."_

"Have you talked to _him?"_

"I haven't talked to anyone. The MGB left and I came straight here. Anya, I don't know what to _do—_ "

Her chair scraped against the floor as she stood and walked around the table. Calloused hands gripped his wrists as she forced him to look her in the eye. Ivan trembled; how was this woman stronger than him?

"Listen to me, Vanya. You are not like us, you are not powerless—"

"I have _tried!_ Oh god, how I've tried but they won't _listen_ to me!"

"Tried to what, follow his rules? Is that how you run your household, like a military establishment?"

Ivan snarled, "I don't have a choice."

"You do have a choice, Rus. We all have a choice."

"Says the woman who is now producing poetry for the State!" he lashed out, and she stepped back with a look of horror.

" _Where the tank roared—there is a peaceful tractor now,  
Where the conflagrations flared—a fragrant garden blooms,  
And along the once demolished highway,  
Light autos fly."_

Ivan recited the poet's own words back to her, and she flinched as though stricken.

"You wrote that because you were banned from the Writers Union and you needed money to put food on your table. You wrote that because your first husband was shot in a forest and chucked into a mass grave just for being a poet, your son is slaving in a labor camp for the _second time_ for being the son of poets, and your second husband was deported for being careless during a University lecture. You wrote that, because you've watched your colleagues walk into the gates of the Gulag and die just like everyone else; and if not they've shot their own brains out with a pistol!

"You are a poet who is banned from being published, a voice of Russia silenced by men who wouldn't know art if it fucked them in a back alley, now tell me Anna Andreevna, _do we all have a choice?"_

The poet pressed shaking hands to her mouth. Ivan felt a pang of guilt; he hadn't intended to make her cry. But he was so _angry,_ and so tired of losing the same battles again and again.

"I hated that poem, Anya. I hated it, because it wasn't you. And you are growing old, and I don't know what I'll do when I can't see you anymore and all I'm left with is this statist drivel you are being forced to write."

"You speak as if my poetry is all that keeps you going, Ivan Zimavich."

"Your poetry is the only voice I can trust."

There was an uncomfortable shift in Ivan’s chest as he was reminded that statement was much truer than he would have liked it to be.

After a pause, she said, "What will you do if they are arrested?"

Heat pricked at Ivan's eyes, and he closed them with an exhale of air. "I'll have to stand in the package line at the prison with everyone else."

"We can go together," she whispered. "When I take packages to Lyova."

Humans were strange creatures. It seemed to Ivan that history was like a forest fire, and humans the leaves which curled and withered, falling to the earth like dust without ever being remembered or counted or named. And yet there were those who didn't burn—ancient trees who withstood the fire against all odds and remained a charred beauty silhouetted against the stars.

Ivan rose from his chair and pulled Anna Andreevna into an embrace. He pressed his lips into the poet's greying hair as he whispered the lines she had written during the height of the terrors they had both somehow managed to survive:

" _That was when,  
Glad for peace,  
Only the dead smiled.  
Like a useless appendage  
Leningrad swung from its prisons.  
When condemned regiments  
Marched mad with torment,  
And locomotive whistles  
Wailed songs of separation.  
The stars of death stood over us,  
And innocent Rus writhed  
Beneath bloody boots  
And the tires of black buses."_

* * *

Russia was probably getting drunk at a bar.

This was Toris's prediction, and one Eduard was inclined to believe. Their master always preferred to be drunk during bouts of violence, and the Baltics had no doubt that was exactly what Russia planned to do upon his return. In this sense, the order to prepare dinner was a cruel one, because there was no telling if "dinner" would even happen before the foyer walls were sprayed with blood.

But orders were orders, even if hurriedly scrawled on a piece of paper, and so Toris, Raivis, and Gilbert had spent the day working in the kitchen while Eduard read books downstairs.

His gaze slid to the clock on the nightstand, watching as the hours climbed towards nineteen. The smell of borscht floated down from the kitchen, and Eduard hated the way his stomach growled because a part of him was sure he would never get to taste it.

It was a half hour until Russia's scheduled arrival when Raivis and Gilbert came into the bedroom armed with medical supplies, and the spark in their eyes told Eduard he had no choice but to allow them to play doctor. And so it was that he ended up sitting shirtless on his bed, hands balling around the sheets as Raivis unwrapped his bandages.

A sharp pain ripped through his back, and Eduard hissed through his teeth.

"Oh!" Raivis yelped, and the pain subsided as he loosened his grip on the bandage. "Sorry, I didn't mean to pull so hard…"

A scratchy voice cut in from the doorway: "You gotta do it quick, like a band-aid."

"But that would rip off the scabs!"

Gilbert shrugged. "They'll grow back."

Eduard was grateful that Raivis was the one changing his bandages. He frowned at the Prussian, "Aren't you two supposed to be helping Toris— _ah!_ —with dinner?"

"Useless didn't need help after a while so we left to do chores." Gilbert flashed a sly grin. "Besides, it's much more fun to watch you suffer."

"Th— _mph!—_ thanks," Eduard grunted. Raivis muttered another apology, but Eduard knew his brother wasn't trying to hurt him. It was hard to be delicate when his back had been turned to raw meat.

"But you went back to check on him, right?"

The bandages loosened.

"Raivis?" Eduard's voice fell to a warning tone.

Finally the boy answered in a whisper, "No."

_"Raivis!"_

Eduard would have spun around if he could. It was Raivis who had brought up his concern about Toris, earlier that day when the two been bedridden. They had talked for a long time about how to break Toris free of the deal—and how that wouldn't be easy. Eduard felt slightly betrayed that Raivis would abandon their plans.

"He's still mad at me, okay?" Raivis whined, pulling the bandages hard enough for Eduard to grunt in pain. "He hates that Prussia is here, and I was the one who—"

"We both voted for Gilbert to stay."

"I _know!_ But Toris just gets in these moods, and I don't know what to say to him!"

Ever since Eduard caught Raivis dumping his beer stash, there seemed to be a new tension and secrecy about the boy. He had hoped to smooth things over by telling Raivis the plan and working together to help Toris, but clearly it was going to take more than that. Eduard groaned and rubbed circles into his eyes.

"You _know_ he starts acting irrationally when he's left alone… "

"I'm sorry!"

_And you were the one telling me I didn't understand emotions._

It seemed that Eduard and Raivis had been burdened with an impossible task: Patching up their broken relationship with Toris, while also welcoming Gilbert into the "family." If Toris didn't even realize he was _loved_ until a few hours ago, a sudden friendship with Gilbert might send mixed signals—especially if Toris had hours to brood.

Gilbert strode into the room and plopped into a chair, swiping up a beer bottle from the floor. If Eduard and Raivis's argument had bothered him, he didn't show it.

"So, what's the plan for when Snow Bastard gets here?"

Eduard's shoulders slumped at the unwelcome topic. As much as he hated to think about it, Gilbert was right: Russia was coming back.

He glanced to the clock again. _Fifteen minutes._

"There is no plan. Russia will probably lock us in the dungeon for a week. It will hurt like hell, and I'd be lying to say I'm not terrified. But that week will end, Russia will release us, and life will go back to the way it was."

Gilbert's brow knitted with a frown. "But… you disobeyed Russia on my behalf. Why—"

"Because if we had been in your position, we would have wanted you to do the same for us."

Gilbert looked even more confused. Eduard sighed; despite all the changes, the Prussian still had a long way to go.

"Okay, I'm done," Raivis said. "Can you sit up?"

Eduard pushed himself up with his hands, arms trembling beneath his weight. Scars shifted as he slid to the edge of the mattress. "Is that good?"

Raivis's face fell in a look of apology. "I'll need you to stand so I can wrap them around."

Eduard muttered curses in his own language. The cement floor was cool against his toes, legs steady as he rose to his feet. His jaw clenched as the raw skin folded and shifted when he straightened his back.

Raivis stood in front of him, armed with a partially unrolled bandage. Eduard was struck with how practiced the position seemed—if there were some kind of trauma treatment contest, his little brother would win by a long shot.

"Okay, now lift your arms."

Eduard did so, feeling exposed in the cool air. Raivis knelt down and reached behind his back, then pulled the bandage forward until the rough fabric brushed his skin.

" _Ah!"_ Eduard jumped.

"Watch it, you almost kneed me in the face!"

"Sorry…"

Raivis scowled. "Look I know it hurts, but you're going to have to suck it up. This will only take a minute."

"Easy for you to say," Eduard muttered. Why bother to change his bandages at all—if he was going to be whipped within the hour, what difference would it make? Eduard glared at the floor to see a pair of boots step into his field of vision. Gilbert extended his hands face up.

"Here."

Eduard blinked. "What—"

"Hold my hands."

" _What!?"_

Gilbert rolled his eyes, "Mein Gott, no wonder you're a virgin."

"I am not— _AH-hah!"_

Somehow in the short time it had taken for Gilbert to insult him, Raivis had darted around Eduard and started wrapping the bandages from the back. He reflexively grabbed Gilbert's hands, but the Prussian fought his flinches and forced him to keep still. Eduard squeezed his eyes shut, gritting his teeth and letting out a whiny moan as the fabric roughed over his raw skin. At last the first layer was done, and Eduard's grip relaxed as Raivis crossed the bandages over his shoulders.

"So." Gilbert stroked a thumb over Eduard's knuckles, face lighting up with a mischievous smile. "Not a virgin, eh?"

Eduard snatched his hands away. He'd rather not discuss his love life, or lack thereof.

He glanced to the clock again: _Ten minutes._

He took a breath to suggest Raivis and Gilbert join Toris so he wouldn't be alone when Russia arrived, but his brother cut him off:

"I don't know about that, but Eduard _does_ have a huge crush on Ukraine."

_Really, Raivis!?_

Eduard tried to round on his brother, but the Latvian grabbed his shoulders and forced him to face forward.

"Is that so?" Gilbert's smile became devilish.

"Oh yeah, he's liked her for—what has it been, two centuries now? She keeps turning him down for Canada, though."

"She hasn't _turned me down,"_ Eduard growled between clenched teeth. "Katushya and I happen to be very close friends."

"It's pretty sad when you think about it," Raivis continued, completely ignoring Eduard's protests. "That's why it's so hard to get Eduard to laugh; he's too busy wallowing in the heartbreak of long-term rejection."

If Eduard's back wasn't currently on fire, he would have elbowed his brother in the ribs. Instead he settled for rolling his eyes. "I could do without the psychoanalysis, thanks."

There was a sharp tug as Raivis clipped the bandage.

Eduard checked the time.

_Nine minutes._

Seemingly pleased with his handiwork, Raivis began putting the medical supplies back in its box. "What about you, Prussia?" he asked. "Do you like anyone?"

"Pffft, love is for the weak."

"Really? What about Hungary?"

Gilbert lowered the bottle and frowned. "Liz? We're good friends, I guess. She's always been obsessed with the Austrian prick; not that I give a damn."

"I dunno…" Raivis sang, snapping the kit shut. "I saw you two dancing at the party in '45, and she caused a big scene before she left."

Gilbert scrunched his nose. "What?"

"You don't remember? She was hugging you and crying and everything." Raivis smirked as he added, "If that's not love, I don't know what is."

_Eight minutes._

"Wh—that's not—! What do you know, you're just a kid!"

"I've read pretty much every romance novel there is. I think I can spot the signs."

"Alright, Mister Expert, let's hear _your_ love story."

_Will Russia drag us to the dungeon one by one? Or will he knock us out first, then wait for us to wake up chained to the wall before he brings out the whip?_

"Well… I don't really have one. Yet, anyway."

"Got your eye on someone?"

"Yeah. But I haven't worked up the courage to talk to her yet. Pretty pathetic, right?"

"I think we could work with that. Give me a few years and I could turn you into a love machine."

Eduard's attention was snapped back to the rather absurd conversation. " _Gilbert!"_

"What, don't you want to see our little prince gallop with his lady into the sunset? You can't treat him like a kid forever."

Someone cleared their throat.

The three nations looked up to see Toris standing in the doorway. His hair was tied back, sleeves rolled up, and apron dusted with flour and smeared sauce. His face was white as a sheet, voice wavering as he said,

"Ivan is here."

* * *

HISTORY NOTES

**Russian Writers and the Tsardom/State**

Going back as far as the Russian Empire, Russian and Soviet leaders have always been keenly aware of the power of writing and the threat it poses to the government's position of power. Most of Russia's famous writers have been exiled or imprisoned, sometimes multiple times. Both Soviet leaders and the tsars personally read and reviewed writers' works, and often banned them from being published. This included novels, short stories, poetry, and plays.

**Union of Soviet Writers**

Because the publishing world was so tightly controlled by the State, any author who wanted to be published had to be a member of the Union of Soviet Writers. Being banned from the Union was equivalent to the death of a writer's career, although some writers resigned in disagreement with the State's censorship policies, or in solidarity with fellow writers who had been banned.

**Uzbekistan**

During WWII, State-mandated evacuations of writers, artists, musicians and filmmakers is what ultimately saved their lives. Akhmatova stayed in Leningrad until September of 1941, by which time the city was being shelled. Pasternak was also evacuated, and sat with Akhmatova on the train to Central Asia. She lived in writers hostels in Tashkent, the capital of Uzbekistan, until 1944. Tashkent served as a gathering place for Russian intelligentsia during the war, and they put on regular poetry readings and concerts. When Akhmatova returned to Leningrad, she later described it as "a cemetery." (Source: _Anna Akhmatova: Poet and Prophet_ by Roberta Reeder)

**The Writer's Village**

Maxim Gorky is one of the legendary writers of Russia, who lived in exile twice due to his opposition to first the Tsarist regime, and later the Bolshevik terror. In 1932 Stalin personally invited him to return to the USSR. Upon telling Stalin of the luxurious living conditions of writers abroad, Stalin began the construction project to house Russia's greatest writers. Peredelkino is located 25km southwest of Moscow, and today has several museums where you can visit the houses of these artists.

**Housing Crisis**

With collectivization of farms and the rise of industrialization in the USSR, hundreds of thousands of Soviet citizens moved from the countryside into the cities. There wasn't enough space, and so the State's solution to this problem was to create communal apartments. Anywhere between two and seven families shared one apartment, each assigned one room which served as a living room, dining room, and bedroom for the entire family. All the apartment residents shared the use of the hallways, kitchen, bathroom and telephone. Living in such close quarters was ideal for spying and gossip, making it easy for informants to report anti-Soviet activity. During the height of the Purges, people would report on their neighbors just to take their room or apartment.

**Pasternak's House**

Writers living in communal apartments did not have desks or studies, and so living conditions in the Writers' Village were ideal for creative productivity. In 1934 Pasternak was assigned a dacha in the Writer's Village. It became his permanent residence from 1941 until his death in 1960. I took the description of the landscape from _Boris Pasternak: His Life and Art_ by Guy de Mallac, and used photographs and a virtual tour of the dacha's interior to describe the house. Today it is a museum.

**Anna Akhmatova**

Born in 1889 to parents descended from Russian nobility, Anna Akhmatova is considered to be one of the greatest Russian poets of the 20th century. She lived through WWI, the Russian Revolution, the Purges, WWII, and the years of the Thaw following Stalin's death. In 1946, Akhmatova had private meetings with an Oxford Professor. This heightened Stalin's paranoia that influential Soviet artists were becoming too comfortable with Western ideas. That August, the Communist party passed a Resolution criticizing journals for publishing Akhmatova's work. This led to a spiral of attacks from critics and newspapers, and she was publicly shamed and expelled from the Union of Soviet Writers. I used personal accounts to portray her physical description, mannerisms, and personality. (Source: _Anna Akhmatova: Poet and Prophet_ by Roberta Reeder)

**Black Cat**

The cat is a reference to Mikhail Bulgakov's novel, _Master and Margarita._ My favorite character, Behemoth, is a black cat, and "Margot" is the diminutive for one of the main character's names, "Margarita." While most writers tried to stay under Stalin's radar, Bulgakov wrote him a personal letter begging for his plays to be produced. Stalin in turn provided him with a stage company, although the plays were all cancelled on opening night. Bulgakov suffered from a kidney disease, and finished _Master and Margarita_ on his death bed, dictating the novel to his second wife. He died in 1940, but the novel wasn't published until 1967.

**Boris Pasternak**

Pasternak was born in Moscow to Jewish parents of high social standing. He remained in Russia through the events of the Revolution and WWII, and is considered to be one of Russia's greatest poets, novelists, and translators. He is most well-known for his novel, _Dr. Zhivago_. As the novel highlights many negative aspects of the Russian Revolution, it was condemned as being anti-Soviet and was banned from being published. Pasternak took a great risk in giving the manuscript to a foreign publisher, and _Dr. Zhivago_ became an international best-seller. In 1958 he was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize. This infuriated the Soviet government. Pasternak was told that if he flew to Sweden to accept the prize, he would not be admitted back into the USSR. Even after he declined the prize, the Party demanded that he be either exiled or arrested. But they feared international outrage, and so he was only criticized heavily in the press.

**Olga Ivinskaya**

Ivinskaya and Pasternak met in 1946, while she was working as an editor for the Soviet journal _Noviy Mir._ By 1947 the two accepted they were in love, although Pasternak couldn't bring himself to divorce his wife. By that time, Pasternak had begun work on _Dr. Zhivago,_ giving parts of the manuscript to his friends and family to read. The government heard about the novel, and Ivinskaya was arrested in October of 1949. She was placed in solitary confinement and interrogated, as they were trying to force her to confess that Pasternak was a spy. She refused, and after weeks of psychological torment, Ivinskaya suffered a miscarriage. Pasternak didn't learn about this until he went to the prison expecting to be handed his child. He asked to be arrested in her place, but the government refused. Shortly afterwards, Ivinskaya was sentenced to five years of hard labor.

After Ivinksaya's arrest, Pasternak supported her family with the little money he had and pushed himself to finish _Dr. Zhivago_. Ivinskaya was the inspiration for the love interest, Lara, and their separation inspired some of the novel's most moving scenes. But the stress took its toll, and Pasternak suffered a heart attack in the fall of 1952. Akhmatova visited him in the hospital in Moscow on December 29. (Source: _Boris Pasternak: His Life and Art_ by Guy de Mallac)

**Article 58**

This was a Penal code which defined counterrevolutionary activity offenses and their corresponding punishments. A few examples: Treason, which called for death sentence or 10 years of prison and property confiscation. Flight of the offender, in which case his or her relatives were subject to 5-10 years of imprisonment. And non-reporting of a "counterrevolutionary activity," which called for at least 6 months of imprisonment. From 1921-1953, over 3 million people were convicted of these so-called crimes.

**Akhmatova's Husbands and Son**

Akhmatova's first husband, Nikolai Gumilyov, was an influential Russian poet and military officer. He was arrested by Lenin's secret police force, the Cheka, in August of 1921 for allegedly participating in a counterrevolutionary plot. The Union of Writers petitioned for his release, typing in Gorky's signature since he was out of town. A group of friends visited the prison, but the guards informed them that Gumilyov was not there. On August 24, the Cheka decreed execution of all 61 participants of the case. They were shot on August 25 in the Kovalevsky Forest, and their bodies were buried in two pits on the side of the road. Gorky returned from Moscow with personal form from Lenin to have Gumilyov released, but he was too late.

Akhmatova's son, Lev Gumilyov, was arrested four times: in 1933, 1935, 1938, and 1949. The first time he spent nine days in prison, although his friend who was arrested with him is assumed to have died in prison. The second time, he was arrested along with Akhmatova's second husband, Nikolai Punin (married to a different woman at the time.) Akhmatova got help from her friends to deliver a letter to Stalin's desk begging for their release, and she received a telegram the next morning saying they had been released. (Boris Pilnyak, another writer who drove her to deliver the letter, was arrested and executed two years later.) The third time Lev was arrested, he was tortured for eight months, then sentenced to five years of hard labor in Norilsk, Siberia. When the Nazis invaded the USSR, he volunteered to fight in the Red Army and won two medals for his service in the Battle of Berlin. After the war he resumed his study at University, but was arrested again in 1949 and sentenced to ten years of hard labor.From 1949 until Lev's release in 1956, Akhmatova's entire life revolved around her son. The first poem Ivan recited was a pro-Stalinist poem she wrote in an attempt to "repent" and use the only weapon she had to set Lev free: her poetry.

Nikolai Punin was an art scholar and writer, and Akhmatova's lifelong friend and later common-law husband. He was arrested on August 26, 1949—a day after Gumilyov's execution 28 years earlier. He had known he would be taken away, as already 18 of his colleagues at the University had been arrested. He was deported to Abez, a camp in Siberia, and died there in 1953—only five months after Stalin's death. (Source: _Anna Akhmatova: Poet and Prophet_ by Roberta Reeder)

**Executed writers in the Purges**

Osip Mandelstam, Isaac Babel, Boris Pilnyak, Titsian Tabidze, Pavel Vasiliev, Nikolai Kluyev, Sergei Chavain, Maximilian Kravkov, Nikolai Nekrasov, Nikolai Oleynikov, Vladimir Mayakiovsky (suicide), Paolo Iashvili, (suicide)

**Last Poem**

Part of everyday life for thousands of women in the Soviet Union, became standing in endless lines to deliver packages to their loved ones in the Gulag camps. If the authorities accepted the parcel, they knew their husbands and sons were still alive. While standing in one of these lines to bring a package to Lev, a woman turned to Akhmatova and asked her if she could describe it. Akhmatova then began writing "Requiem," her most famous series of poems which described her experience—and the experience of millions—during the Purges. She was so terrified of being found out, that she would write a line on a piece of paper, memorize it, and burn it. The stanza Ivan recites is my own translation of the poem’s introduction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terms:  
> Leningrad: Saint Petersburg, renamed in Lenin's honor after his death in 1924.  
> Dacha: A Russian summer country home, which many Russians still own today. Dachas were especially popular for Russians living in the cities, as they could take a vacation to their dacha and relax away from the bustle of city life.  
> General Secretary: The title of Stalin's position as head of the USSR.  
> Tapochki: House slippers worn inside of the house, and it is customary to offer them to guests when they arrive.
> 
> For photographs and more info on Russian writers, click [HERE](https://chessna2.tumblr.com/post/180791907367/extra-material-for-ch-23)
> 
> A huge thank you goes out to my Russian professors for inspiring me to include Russian writers in the story, and for helping me with research for this chapter. Thank you for reading, and please leave a comment!


	24. Vakariņas — Dinner

According to Toris, Russia hadn't so much as glanced in his direction when he arrived. Now their master was sitting at the dining table waiting for his 'family' to join him, and this worried Eduard.

_So we're going to eat, after all? What's his strategy here?_

Fabric roughed his arms, and Eduard reached back to slide them through the sleeves. Gilbert held the shirt in place as he pulled it over his shoulders, the material feeling strange through his bandages. Eduard ignored the pain as he fastened the buttons with shaking fingers.

"Can you hand me a uniform—"

"No."

Eduard frowned at Gilbert. The Prussian stood with his hands in his pockets, eyes trained on the floor. The moment Raivis had left the room, a grim seriousness darkened Gilbert's face—as if he'd been faking the good mood all along.

"Russia wants us—"

"To hell with what Russia wants."

Eduard raised his eyebrows. "Is there something you want to tell me?"

Ruby eyes flickered in his direction, then Gilbert's shoulders slumped and the tension eased. "No. Just—don't wear the uniform if it hurts to put the damn thing on."

Eduard frowned; something was bothering the Prussian but he couldn't tell what exactly. Gilbert lowered himself onto the mattress, and Eduard slung his arm around bony shoulders. The two grunted as Gilbert helped him to his feet.

"Dammit," Gilbert hissed.

"Why—are you the one cursing," Eduard laughed breathlessly. His hands balled around the fabric of Gilbert's uniform as they staggered to the door.

"Because you don't deserve this. What is this to him, some kind of sick joke? A last 'family' meal before he whips us all to shreds? As if you haven't been through enough shit already."

Eduard was surprised to hear Gilbert so strongly defend them. "I-I thought you didn't give a damn about me or my pathetic brothers," he smirked.

Gilbert didn't seem to hear, eyes fiery slits as he glared at the staircase in front of them. "You can win your independence again."

"What?"

"You did it the first time, right? When the Russian Empire went to hell. People were unhappy with the status quo, so the sparks flew and you took advantage." Gilbert's lips pressed into determined line. "How long do you think old fatso can keep up this Communist shtick before people get fed up with it? Protests. Worker strikes. Civil war. The whole thing could come crashing down, and that's when you three make a break for it."

Eduard grunted as he gripped the banister, arms trembling beneath his weight. "I appreciate the optimism, but I don't see that happening anytime soon."

"And in June of '41 I thought the war was a done deal." Crimson eyes slid to meet Eduard, alight with a fire he had never seen before. "History is a fickle bastard, Eddy. The game changes. Empires fall. I don't care how impossible it feels; there _is_ a future where you three are independent. Don't you lose sight of that, not for one second."

Those words resonated through Eduard's body like a chord. He turned his attention back to the staircase, "What is this, a pep talk?"

The dry humor seemed lost on Gilbert. Eduard hadn't had a chance to ask the Prussian how he felt about returning to the dungeon, but one look at his face made that much clear. It was a bitter irony—Gilbert had finally learned to embrace life aboveground, only to be sent back. That sense of morbid familiarity was one Eduard knew all too well: Russia had trapped them in a time loop.

The two fell into silence as they concentrated on getting up the stairs. Eduard hated it: the tantalizing scent of dinner, knowing it would be his last possibly in weeks. The pain burning in his back, knowing he would have to experience it all over again.

After a series of grunts and hisses, at last they managed to reach the kitchen. The scent of borscht was even stronger now, making Eduard's mouth water.

"Hey, Eddy."

"Yeah," Eduard grunted.

"I uh… I never thanked you."

"For what?"

"For remembering that I exist."

Eduard turned to Gilbert, startled. The Prussian cleared his throat awkwardly and focused on the floor.

"Because if you hadn't… included me in your plans or whatever… I'd still be down in that dungeon. And yeah, maybe I wasn't out for very long but… it was worth it, you know?"

Eduard took a breath to answer, but he was cut off with a gasp,

" _Dieve!"_

He snapped his head up to see Toris rushing towards them. The pale, panicked look on his face was one Eduard recognized as the Lithuanian scrambling to please their master. "Ivan is asking about you two," Toris hissed in a whisper. "I'll take Eduard from here. Prussia, your seat is the one on Ivan's right."

Eduard saw a protest forming on Gilbert's lips, but he cut in before an argument started, "Go, I'll be fine."

Gilbert's lips pressed into a line, but he slipped from Eduard's grip and strode through the entrance towards the dining room.

Toris wrapped an arm around Eduard's shoulder, providing the support he needed to alleviate the weight from his back. Eduard threw a short glance to his brother, checking for a busted lip or a black eye—but from what he could see, Toris was unscathed.

"How are you doing?" he asked, although he could guess the answer.

Toris's jaw locked. "We should hurry, Ivan can't wait forever."

Eduard’s heart sank—after all he had said to try and help Toris, none of it had any effect. It seemed no amount of motivational speeches could match the power Russia held over his brother.

The dining room was much smaller than what one would have expected from the grandeur of Russia's mansion. A plain round table stood in the center, big enough to comfortably seat four. Years ago Russia's sisters made that number six, at which point the table began to feel crowded. The mansion did have a formal dining hall, but this was intended for special guests and Party meetings. Russia much preferred the smaller, "homey" space of this dining room.

But tonight, the atmosphere was anything but homey—the second Eduard stepped through the entrance, the air temperature dropped.

Russia reclined at his usual place on the far end of the table, elbows resting on either side of his plate. Violet eyes snapped up to send Eduard a wide smile.

"Ah, Estonia! I'm glad you could join us."

Eduard noticed his master's firm grip on a vodka bottle; he wouldn't be surprised to see cracks snaking up the glass. Even so, Russia didn't appear to be drunk. Eduard was unsure if this made him more or less dangerous.

_If Russia didn't leave the mansion to get drunk, then what was he doing?_

An icy gaze bore into Eduard as Toris helped him into his seat. He tried to hide the winces of pain, not wanting to give Russia the satisfaction of knowing his earlier interrogation was still taking its toll.

Raivis sat in his designated spot across from Russia, head bowed and hands clasped firmly in his lap. Gilbert sat on Eduard's left, and they shared a knowing glance.

 _Well,_ a cocked pale eyebrow seemed to say. _This is it._

Toris darted around the table to take his seat on Russia's left. He tucked a strand of hair behind one ear, eyes scanning the food to make sure everything was in order. The table was beautifully set with fine china and silver, crystal glasses throwing the chandelier light into fractals across a red silk tablecloth. A large pot of steaming red broth stood in the center, other serving plates displaying potatoes, salad, and sliced bread and cheeses.

But the warm setting only made Eduard feel sick—these trivial objects were nothing but props in Russia's fabricated empire of lies.

"Let us begin with a toast, da?" Russia smiled. He raised his vodka glass, and everyone hurriedly did the same. Eduard watched the liquid ripple in Raivis's hand; the boy was shaking so violently he feared he would drop it.

"To GDR! May he enjoy a prosperous life as a part of our family."

"To GDR," The Baltics echoed in unison, and they all raised their glasses before taking fervent gulps. The bitter burn of vodka slicked down Eduard's throat, and he winced as he set his glass back on the table. He glanced to Raivis, who was still drinking, and watched as the boy set down an empty glass. Eduard shot his brother a warning look, but Raivis was too busy staring mournfully at the glass to notice.

"Pryatnava appetita!" Russia announced, and the dining room filled with the thump of plates and soft mutters of, "Do you want some, Raivis?" "That's enough, thanks." "Can you pass the sour cream?" Once everyone was served, the room fell into a deafening silence, aside from the soft slurping of soup.

Eduard stole a glance at Russia. While his bowl was full, his master hadn't even touched his spoon. Instead he pulled a fresh bottle of vodka from his coat and refilled his glass.

The broth in Eduard's mouth became tasteless, his stomach tightening so he was hesitant even to swallow. He swirled the sour cream in his soup, watching the red liquid turn a light pink.

_That's all this is to you, isn't it? Just an entertaining game of cat and mouse. That's why you waited—so you could trap us in the cage you call 'family.'_

"Latvia."

A glob of borscht splashed into the bowl as Raivis jolted.

Russia's eyes narrowed at the boy across the table. His voice was eerily calm as he continued, "You were the first to ask for Prussiya to stay. Do you know each other well?"

Eduard frowned; did Russia not have all the incriminating evidence he needed? _You know we're guilty. Why waste time trying to prove it?_

"N-no, sir," Raivis answered.

"How long have you known Prussiya? You have old history, perhaps?"

"Um," Raivis glanced to Eduard. "Well the Teutonic Knights controlled my territory for a while but that was hundreds of years ago and we didn't really know each other that well…"

"What about during the Patriotic wars? Your territory was occupied by Germans at the time."

"Well… yes… "

"And did you come to know Prussiya then?"

Raivis locked eyes with Gilbert. "Not really. I only reported to him during the Great War, and he wasn't there for the Nazi invasion of Riga. I didn't even see him in Berlin."

"What about our Victory Day celebration in '45, did you speak to Prussiya then?"

"No, sir."

Russia's gaze darkened. "So you have only known Prussiya for two days."

"That's correct, sir."

Russia let out a short huff. He swiped the vodka bottle from the table and lifted it to his lips, gulps loud enough to be heard. Raivis took the opportunity to grab a slice of bread from the serving plate, hands shaking so much that he dropped it. He snatched it up, dipping it into the soup and ripping off a bite.

_What is Russia doing?_

A glance to Toris, and Eduard could see the Lithuanian was equally lost. Their master hadn't acknowledged anyone but Raivis for the entirety of the meal, and Eduard understood this to be intentional.

_Why ignore Toris and target Raivis?_

But like everyone else at the table, Eduard found himself helpless to do anything but watch.

Russia set the bottle back on the table with a _thump._ "How many of your people died in the war, Latvia?"

Raivis choked on the bread, "Sorry?"

Russia repeated the question slower, "How many of your people died in the war, from 1941 until 1945."

Raivis frowned. "What does that have to do with—"

"Answer the question, Latvia."

The bread crumbled in Raivis's tightening grip. "We don't know. Hundreds of thousands."

"And did you care about those people?"

The bread slipped from Raivis's fingers and fell into his soup, bobbing in the red liquid. Nobody dared to touch their food; now the silence was truly overwhelming.

"Did you _love_ them?" Russia asked, in a mocking tone that sent Eduard's skin crawling.

Raivis still didn't answer.

"You are a nation, Latvia, this should not be so difficult—"

"Yes." Raivis's voice wavered; Eduard could tell his brother was close to tears.

"Then how would you explain to them that you have risked your life to save the nation who is responsible for their deaths?" Russia refilled his glass, the trickle of alcohol echoing in the awful silence. He seemed perfectly relaxed as he waited for Raivis's answer.

Eduard was beginning to see some strategy points. One: Russia was essentially asking Raivis the same question he had asked Eduard in the dungeon—only now, he had eliminated any excuse to justify their protectiveness of Gilbert.

And two: By interrogating him over dinner, Russia was forcing Eduard and Toris to watch. These questions weren't just designed to get information—they were designed to _hurt._ And judging by the way Raivis's lip trembled, their master had hit the mark.

_He probably doesn't even expect Raivis to tell him our plan. No… he's waiting for one of us to jump in and save him._

But even as Eduard traced his master's logic, there were still disconnects. Russia shouldn't _need_ to conduct an interrogation—a simple act of disobedience was all he needed to drag them to the dungeon. Eduard narrowed his eyes at his master.

_What are you waiting for?_

"I—" Raivis's voice cracked and he tried again. "I-I would tell my people that—that Prussia made a mistake. And—and I'm going to be his friend so he can learn never to do that again."

Russia lowered the bottle, eyebrows shooting up in surprise. "Friend?" he repeated, as if he had misheard.

Raivis's voice was barely a whisper, "Yes."

There was a pause in which Russia stared at Raivis in disbelief.

And then he laughed.

The great nation threw his head back, chest and shoulders shaking with a deep timbre that rumbled through Eduard's bones. It was a chilling laugh—not of joy, but of pure skepticism and cruelty. It was the kind of laugher that relished in another's pain, a laughter than knew it had won. At last Russia sucked in a deep breath to control himself, flashing a smug smile across the table at Raivis.

"You cannot expect me to fall for such a fairytale, Latvia. Surely you are capable of acting more mature than your young appearance would suggest? Or has a thousand years of being a nation taught you _nothing."_

Raivis trembled with anger, "What?"

" _Friendship_ ," Russia scoffed, "Is an ideal created by men who seek to live their pathetically short lives content without money or power. It is meaningless to beings like us. Nations do not make _friends,_ we make allies. We promise each other support, supplies, resources, or peace in exchange for something else to our own benefit. And the moment the alliance is not needed, we dispose of it. An ally today is an enemy tomorrow. Any 'favors' you may receive are only out of necessity; any 'kindness' shown is only to ensure the agreement."

Russia laced his fingers beneath his chin, lips pulling into a satisfied smirk. "Nyet, Latvia, Prussiya cannot be your 'friend.' Because he needs land and money and resources to survive, and he will throttle you in your sleep if it means getting them."

There was a clatter as Toris set down his spoon.

Eduard shot his brother a desperate look, _Don't do it!_

The Lithuanian straightened in his chair, turning to Russia and taking a breath—

"Th… that's not true."

All eyes snapped towards Raivis. His plate rattled at the tremble of his fists on the table.

Russia's smile faded. "What did you say, Little One?"

"I said… bullshit. You're wrong. You're wrong about friendship, you're wrong about nations, and you're wrong about Prussia."

Eduard bit back a gasp. _Raivis, what are you doing!?_

Russia's eyes narrowed, his voice dangerously soft. "And just exactly how am I wrong, little Latvia?"

"Friendship is a privilege, not a last resort. People make friends because they're not so selfish to think they can make it on their own, and nations are no different. We say our only purpose is to subjugate and conquer each other, but do you really buy into that bullshit? After hundreds of years of warfare, and where has it gotten us? Have we gotten smarter, have we 'evolved,' has the world become a 'better place?' We've developed science and technologies, but for what? Bigger bombs, faster bullets, stronger tanks—just so that we can kill each other more easily than we could a hundred years ago!

"What does that mean? That we've finally 'made it,' that we've choked and clawed at each other until we've invented a device that can blow our nation carcasses apart like it's nothing? Is that your 'perfect world,' Russia?"

Eduard stared at his brother in awe. The boy's eyes shimmered, but not from fear—these were tears of _anger._

"I'm not an idiot; I know people are selfish. You think everyone in my country was pitching in to help save the Jews? No, they _didn't!_ They—they shot… they burned, they beat… my people… _my_ children were the ones that did it. So yeah, it was the Nazis' fault. But I've got my own share of blood on my hands."

Gilbert's mouth fell open, and there was a quiet splash as he dropped his spoon into his soup.

Raivis drew himself up as he glared at Russia. "I refuse to believe that's 'just how things are,' and how they'll always be. There's got to be another way; we've got to have made some kind of mistake. And if it starts with something as crazy as making friends with an ex-Nazi, then goddammit, my best friend is going to be an ex-Nazi. Because if I don't show him what selflessness can look like, then who will?"

For a split second shock crossed the Russian's face, then it twisted into a scowl. "I don't recall you being such an advocate for peace when your people were tearing out each other's throats in the name of 'independence,'" he snarled. "It's a convenient worldview when you are powerless, is it not?"

"It's not about convenience, it's about setting the example! If nations weren't so selfish, we wouldn't have ended up in that war in the first place—"

"Ah, so then I should have let the Nazis rot your country from the inside out? Had I not so 'selfishly' sacrificed millions of my own men, you would not be standing here today, Latvia."

Eduard barely heard Raivis’s next words: "Not that it made a difference."

One swipe of an arm, and Russia's bowl, silverware, vodka bottle, and glass went flying from the table. Eduard winced at the _CRASH_ that echoed through the room. Shards of glass splintered and ricocheted off the table legs, bottle rolling as vodka pooled onto the wood. Russia stood at his place, jaw set as his chest rose and fell.

The silence was tangible. All Eduard could do was to watch his master in stunned horror, waiting for what kind of punishment would fly from the folds of his coat.

"Can… can I go to the bathroom?"

_What!?_

Eduard bit his tongue to keep from saying it out loud. He gaped at his brother; _What the hell are you trying to do!?_

The deep answer was growled through clenched teeth, "Go."

Raivis stood from his chair, shaking like a leaf. He stiffly turned, then took quick steps out of the dining room and disappeared down the halls. For a few moments the only sounds were the patter of fading footsteps.

"Litva."

Toris's voice was choked with fear. "Yes sir?"

"Your borscht was too bitter. Make sure to salt it next time."

"Yes, sir."

Eduard locked eyes with Toris. The two brothers didn't dare point out that Russia hadn't touched his soup, which now oozed red down the wall.

* * *

_Raivis dusted bits of food off his uniform as he and Prussia left the kitchen._

" _So where do you think we should—_ hey!"

_Before he could react, Prussia had grabbed him by the wrist and was hauling him through the corridors. Raivis stumbled after him, confusion turning into worry as Prussia threw a hurried glance up and down the hallway, then yanked him into a study and closed the door shut behind them._

" _What's going on?"_

_Raivis blinked as his eyes adjusted to the dark. With a few clicks of his tongue, Prussia found a desk lamp and turned it on, yellow light throwing shadows across his gaunt face._

" _We're calling off the plan."_

_Raivis blinked. "What?"_

_Prussia crossed his arms and leaned back on the desk. "Things have… changed. There are no letters. So forget the plan."_

_Raivis stared at the Prussian, waiting for him to explain further. But Prussia's face had hardened into seriousness, eyes fixated on the floor. Raivis didn't understand; where was this coming from?_

_"What do you mean? You said Germany was writing you—"_

" _Yeah, well he's not. There's no point in risking your skin for something that doesn't exist, so—"_

" _Wait, what are you talking about? Did Russia say something to you?"_

_Prussia's brow creased into a grimace._

_Anger rose in Raivis's chest; he had seen that devastated look before_. 1940, when Russia told Toris that Poland was dead. Yup, that's the same face.

" _Don't believe anything Russia says," Raivis said, his voice stern. "He lies all the time to get what he wants. Just because he's told you there are no letters—"_

" _It's more than that." Prussia's nails dug into his arms. "I did something pretty fucked up to Luddy during the war. He would have never written me letters anyway; I was just too stupid to realize it until now."_

_Raivis frowned, "What did you do?" He had been under the impression that Prussia and Germany were close; he couldn't imagine what could have caused such a rift between them._

" _It's—hard to explain. All you need to know is that Snow Bastard got sick of stashing a rotting carcass in his dungeon, so he offered to send me back and reunify East and West Germany. But Luddy said no—" Prussia’s voice cracked, "Four times. I saw the signatures, they were real."_

_Raivis crossed his arms; it sounded exactly like the kind of situation Russia would use to twist the truth to his own advantage._

_"But he's your brother! I'm sure he had a good reason for saying no; Russia probably left something out or lied about the offer."_

" _Look, kid," Prussia sighed. "I want to believe it's a lie, too. But even Russia doesn't know what happened between Luddy and I during the war. I wouldn't blame Ludwig for not wanting anything to do with me."_

 _Raivis's chest tightened with a mixture of panic and frustration. The_ one time _he had a chance to prove himself, and it was slipping through his fingers like sand… all because of another one of Russia's stupid lies!_

" _But he's your_ little brother," _he pressed again, trying to keep the anger out of his voice. "You raised him on your own, didn't you? You're the only family he has, and suddenly after the war he's forbidden from seeing you again? I don't think it matters what you did; he still needs you."_

_Prussia’s sharp gaze pinned Raivis to the floor. "I'm done talking about it, okay? Just don't stick your neck out for me at dinner. Snow Bastard is pissed enough as it is; your brothers would kill me if I sent you on a suicide mission."_

No! No, no, no, dammit!

_Surely Prussia couldn't be this dense?! And how would Germany feel, hearing his brother talk about him like that?_

Toris and Eduard aren't perfect, but that doesn't mean I would just disown them! What is it with big brothers and being so hard on themselves!?

" _Hey." Prussia's glare softened into a weak smile. "It's alright. This is between me and Luddy, ja? You deal with your brother shit and I'll deal with mine."_

_Raivis's shoulders slumped as he realized there was nothing he could do to change Prussia's mind. He wasn't like Russia; he couldn't mold a person's will like clay. And even if he could, it's not like anybody listened to him._

But—I thought Prussia… I thought he was different…

" _Okay."_

_Prussia uncrossed his arms with a sigh. "Hey, I'm sorry, alright? Don't worry, I'll think of another top secret mission for you sometime when Snow Bastard isn't about to rip our heads off."_

_A shadow fell over Raivis, and his eyes darted up to see Prussia's hand reaching to ruffle his hair._

_In a split second, Raivis snatched the Prussian's wrist._

_Prussia blinked in surprise. "Wh—"_

" _Just—don't, okay?"_

_Raivis saw a flicker of hurt in those crimson eyes, but he didn't care. He let go and turned towards the door, hands shoved in his pockets._

_"First chore is to mop the dining room floor. We gotta get the cleaning supplies from the closet."_

" _Latvia—"_

" _I'm_ fine."

But Raivis wasn't fine.

He was pissed.

And even after the tension had smoothed over and he and Prussia had returned to lighthearted conversation, his throat still stung with betrayal. Here comes the first person in centuries to actually believe in him, and in a matter of hours Prussia had joined the ranks along with everyone else.

But really, what did he expect? It was just like Russia to come along and ruin his chance, just like he ruined everything else in Raivis's life.

So upon the realization that his master intended to interrogate him over dinner, Raivis made a decision:

He would _not_ back down.

He could sense the choked gasps and mental messages from his brothers: _Raivis, what are you doing!? It's too dangerous! You'll get us all killed!_

But he didn't care.

Screw Russia, screw Prussia, screw all of them.

_I am NOT some helpless little kid. And I'll prove it to them when I find Germany's letters._

Raivis's breath grew heavy, the patter of his footsteps echoing in the halls. As the soft yellow light of the dining room faded further and further behind him, he picked up his pace to a jog, then a run, then a full-out sprint.

The house was much darker than he had anticipated, inky black shadows lurking in the corners. But for once, the cavernous halls and towering pillars didn't scare Raivis in the slightest.

The moment he turned the corner to the massive hallway leading to Russia's office, Raivis slowed to a walk. All at once the adrenaline drained out of him, leaving him with the horrified realization that he was about to enter the heart of Russia's lair. He gulped and craned his neck to look up at the swirling carvings on the door.

_I can do this. All I have to do is find the letters and leave. Easy, right?_

A voice in the back of his head screamed that no, it wasn't easy, and that he should turn around right now and get back to the dining room before Russia gets suspicious!

 _No,_ Raivis told himself firmly. _I'm not afraid anymore._

He took a shuddery breath, fingers brushing the smooth carvings of the door. A deep groan echoed through the hall as he pushed it open.

The office was pitch black, a mouth of orange coals breathing shadows from the fireplace. Raivis stepped into the darkness and closed the door behind him with a resounding _THUNK._

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small flashlight. He turned it on with a soft _click,_ a ring of white trembling as he shone it around the great room, shadows stretching and gliding across the floor.

With a feeling of dread, Raivis realized he had no idea where to start looking.

 _Okay. Slow down and think this through. What would Eduard do?_ He started with the first step he had seen his brother use when solving mysteries: State what you know.

_Russia wants Prussia to believe that Germany isn't writing him letters. So he lied about it._

Raivis frowned; that didn't really get him anywhere…

_This is where Toris would pipe up with some secret information about Russia's habits, or something._

Raivis racked his brain; he wasn't an expert on Russia but living with him for over a century had taught him a thing or two.

_Prussia said that not even Russia knows what happened between him and Germany, right? So there would be no way for Russia to be sure his lie had worked. If that's the case, he would need some sort of back-up plan in case Prussia didn't believe him._

Raivis's eyes widened as he realized the best solution to Russia's problem: _Destroy the letters._

Of course, why didn't he realize it before?!

_Unless he ripped them up, or something… no, that would leave too much evidence…_

His gaze fell on the fireplace.

Raivis gasped, _That’s it!_

He sprinted across the office, shining the flashlight onto the charred logs. A molten orange glow flickered within the wood, bathing heat onto his face. Raivis squinted, kneeling on the carpet to get a better look at the ashes.

There, piled into a writhing mass, were the grey flakes of burned paper.

Raivis blew into the fireplace, and flakes whirled into the air. He snatched one up, but it crumbled into ash. Raivis bit his lip; it was a clue but it wasn't proof. Who's to say Russia didn't just throw some old documents into the fire?

Just then something caught his eye. He leaned forward, pointing the flashlight to the back of the fireplace.

It was an envelope. He could make out ink handwriting, a stamp and postage across the top. Raivis rolled up his sleeves, knees digging into the brick as he reached over the glowing coals. The heat warmed his hand, but didn't burn. He snatched up the envelope with two fingers and pulled it back over the logs, blowing off the ashes in a grey puff.

Raivis held the envelope over the brick, careful not to let any ash drift onto the carpet. He pointed the flashlight onto the ink writing:

_Gilbert Beilschmidt  
Vertreter der DDR  
Moskauer Kreml  
103073 Moskau UdSSR_

Raivis's eyes widened as he focused on the second line.

_Vertreter… that's representative… and DDR is GDR, that's Prussia!_

He glanced to the postage on the corner, and his heart leapt in his throat when he saw the address:

_Ludwig Beilschmidt  
Deutscher Bundestag  
53113 Bonn  
Bundesrepublik Deutschland_

Raivis's hands shook.

_This—this—I can't believe it!_

Not only was this a letter from Germany, but the address itself was proof that Prussia now represented the GDR! It didn't matter what was written in the letter, if it had been censored or tampered with, if it was even legible—this envelope was the proof Prussia had been looking for!

_I can't believe I did it! I was right! I… I did it!_

He blew the remaining ash off the envelope and shoved it down the collar of his uniform. Raivis looked down at his hands to realize they were smeared with soot.

_If Russia sees a speck on my uniform, I'm done for._

With one last glance to the fireplace to make sure he hadn't left any clues, Raivis snatched up the flashlight and bolted for the office door. He pushed it open with a deep groan, and the last shafts of flickering light vanished as it swung shut behind him.

Raivis's breaths came in hot pants as he sprinted back towards the dining room. _How long has it been?_ he wondered, not daring to think what would happen if Russia realized he had overstayed his "break."

Raivis skidded to a halt in front of a bathroom door. He threw it open, tossing the flashlight into the cabinet under the sink. He turned on the faucet with a rush of cold water and scrubbed soap up his wrists. Raivis checked his uniform in the mirror, dusting off any loose pieces of ash.

_Shit, I look like I just ran a marathon._

He yanked off a hand towel and rubbed his face, then ruffled his sweaty curls and pressed it around his neck to soak up the perspiration. He checked the mirror again—his face was red and his hands were shaking, but it was as good as it was going to get.

_Okay, Raivis. Just take a deep breath. You just went to the restroom. Nothing to hide. Everything is going to be fine._

Once he managed to get his breathing under control, Raivis pulled open the bathroom door to be met with a giant form standing right under the threshold.

"Privyet, Latvia."

All thoughts of self-control flew out of the boy's mind as he gaped at the Russian smiling down on him. The fear he had just carefully concealed returned in full force, beads of sweat collecting on his neck. Raivis couldn't even get his voice to work as his mouth uselessly opened and closed.

Violet eyes darted to the toilet behind him, and the Russian's thick brows pulled into a frown. With quick swipe, he snatched up Raivis's wrist in a gloved iron grip.

The boy let out an involuntary yelp as Russia jerked up his hand, then sniffed. That violet gaze cut through Raivis like ice as he rumbled, "You washed your hands yet you did not use the toilet."

The voice of panic screamed that Raivis was doomed, but he forced himself to think. _If you screw this up, everyone else will be in danger! Get it together, you just went to the bathroom!_

"I—I-I was just taking pain medicine, sir," he stammered.

Russia's eyes narrowed in a suspended moment of silence. Then without a word, he spun on his heel and stormed out of the bathroom.

Raivis's entire body lurched forward, Russia’s iron grip yanking him to his side. His master bent down to snarl with vodka-tainted breath,

"It is truly a wonder, Latvia, how you are hundreds of years old and yet so small and frail. You must be terrified, surrounded by so many great powers who want to _rip you apart."_

Russia's fist balled around the nape of Raivis's uniform and hoisted him up until his toes brushed the floor. Raivis let out a cry, breaking into terrified gasps as the wooden panels rushed beneath him.

"Just look at yourself, already begging me to stop. This is not war. This is not an invasion. This is just you and me—and you are completely _helpless."_

Russia came to an abrupt halt, wrenching Raivis inches away from his face. He could make out individual hairs on those thick brows, the flecks of violet in eyes that so closely resembled his own. Hot breath tickled his eyelashes, a giant fist rattling him like a doll as Russia hissed,

"A territory like that would be wise to obey those who are stronger than him, do you not agree?"

Raivis wanted to scream.

He wanted to pull the letter from his uniform and wave it in Russia's face as proof of just how "helpless" he was. Could a small and frail "territory" break into the office of the most powerful nation in the world? Raivis grit his teeth and tried to twist away, prying at thick fingers and kicking his legs. Russia only snarled and stood again, yanking up Raivis so fast, he broke into coughs.

"I-I'm sorry!" Raivis gasped, hating how his eyes heated up with tears. "Please… please let me go!"

"Please what? Am I your equal now?"

"Please SIR!" Raivis screamed, shoulders lurching with a sob.

Russia's eyes flashed as he said, "No."

Yellow light glowed from the end of the hallway, and Raivis realized they were nearing the dining room. A scratchy voice in English shrieked through the walls:

 _"Jesus!_ What more do you want from me, I told you I called it off!"

"You put him in danger." Raivis recognized the ragged snarl as Toris's voice. "You put your— _fascist_ ideas into his head, sending him off on some idiotic suicide mission _knowing_ it would get him and all of us killed!"

"Yes, I realized it was dangerous, which is why I told the little brat to stay put—"

"Raivis never does what he's told!" Toris's voice was shrill with hysteria. "And if you were _actually_ part of this family; if you weren't just some freeloader trying to glean favors and compassion from MY brothers for your own selfish gains, then you would know that!"

"Toris—"

"No, _you_ shut up! It's because of YOU that Prussia thinks he can waltz around like he owns the place! If you had just sent him off to the MGB like Ivan _wanted_ , none of this would have happened!"

The argument in the dining room was so heated, nobody noticed when Russia stepped into the entrance. Raivis struggled against the grip on the nape of his neck, hating that his brothers would see him like this. He felt like a misbehaving child being delivered to his parents.

"Litva."

All three of the nations jumped at the deep voice, turning to face the Russian standing in the doorway. Raivis watched his brothers' expressions fade from anger to horror.

"Raivis," Toris gasped.

" _Litva,"_ Russia repeated with a growl.

Toris snapped to attention, dropping a knife on the floor with a clatter. "Yes, sir."

"Forget dinner. I want all of you to clean this up immediately."

Russia tossed Raivis into the room as if he were a pile of laundry. He staggered to catch his balance, then looked back to see a dark smile spread across Russia's face.

"Latvia and I will be having another chat tonight."

* * *

Fan art by [Madam_Lotus](https://twitter.com/Madam_Lotus) (original post [HERE](https://chessna2.tumblr.com/post/181231418337/madamelotus-a-screenshot-based-on-chessna2-s))

* * *

HISTORY NOTES

**Fall of the USSR**

The Fall of the Soviet Union happened suddenly and rapidly, and without the extensive bloodshed Russia had experienced with the fall of the Russian Empire. The decision to end the Union was not made by the Russian people, but a small group of political leaders who disbanded the USSR virtually overnight. Russians awoke on the morning of December 26, 1991 to the old Imperial flag flying over the Kremlin. The country they had been born and raised in, and in some cases, fought for, had ceased to exist. This differs greatly from Gilbert's prediction – he assumes Russia will have to experience another grass roots Revolution before Communist rule can ever be brought to an end. (Here I refer to the RSFSR itself, NOT the other republics, which experienced widespread protest and some violence)

**The Patriotic Wars**

Although during Soviet Times Russians referred to WWII as "The Great Patriotic War," it was not the only war to go by that name. Russians considered a "patriotic war" to be any war that took place on their home soil. Other wars to go by this name were the War of 1812 and WWI.

**Latvia in WWI**

The German line during WWI stopped at Kurzeme, a southern region of Latvia. A large percentage of the Latvian population was evacuated into Russia, and the Latvian Riflemen fought on the front lines. However, when the new Bolshevik government surrendered to the Central Powers in March of 1918, the entire Baltic territory was given to the Germans. It is my headcanon that the idea of a "nation household" was relatively new – one only Ivan employed due to his obsession with family. The territories under German control stayed home and only reported to their occupiers; i.e. Gilbert, Ludwig, and Austria/Hungary. Thus, the plan to build a Nazi Estate and house nations in WWII was a direct order from Hitler, as part of his strategy to keep the nations out of the way while the Nazis performed ethnic cleansing, particularly in the East.

**The Latvian War of Independence**

Latvia was divided during the war of independence, with groups siding with the Whites, the Bolsheviks, the Germans, and the Latvian provisional government. A Latvian nationalist point of view would typically glaze over these differences, claiming that the previously Red Latvian Riflemen threw down their weapons en masse to join the fight for independence. But a Russian point of view likes to exaggerate the differences, claiming the "War of Independence" was closer to a Civil War in which the Latvian nationalists were the lucky victors. A Russian documentary says the Latvian Riflemen returned home to a divided country suspicious of their previous affiliations with the Reds. But a Latvian documentary hails the Riflemen as heroes who fought for their country. Thus by bringing up this issue, Ivan is challenging Raivis's very sovereignty and suggesting he was never a legitimate nation in the first place. (Sources: _The Latvian Saga_ by Uldis Ģērmanis, Rossiya 24's _Punishers. The Truth about the Latvian Riflemen)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Madam_Lotus for this gorgeous fan art! The details in the background are so cool. 
> 
> I have some very exciting news... which is that @littie-hun has posted the first chapter of the RUSSIAN translation of DITR!!! I am so excited to read the story in Russian, and it's a great option for any Russian speaking readers! You can access the translation [HERE](https://ficbook.net/readfic/9007868), and I've also put a link on my AO3 profile. 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading!


	25. Голод — Hunger

In the one hundred and thirty years Raivis had lived in Russia's household, he had never felt such tension as that which hung in the air as he, his brothers, and Prussia cleaned up dinner.

Food Toris had worked so hard to prepare was unceremoniously dumped into bowls and packed into the fridge. Water sloshed and a sponge scratched in suds as Eduard furiously scrubbed the plates, a towel squeaked against crystal as Raivis dried them. Cabinet doors swung open and porcelain clinked as Toris slid them into place. A mop slapped against the dining room floor as Prussia cleaned up Russia's meal.

Nobody said a word.

Raivis threw nervous glances towards his brothers, but they both refused to look at him. Somehow this frightened him more than the prospect of another interrogation.

With the slam of cabinet doors and the gargle of water draining in the sink, Eduard spun on his heel and grabbed Raivis by the wrist. The mop handle clattered to the floor as Prussia jogged up behind them, and quick footsteps echoed around the hall as the four nations rushed downstairs. Toris stood by the door as they filed into the Baltics' bedroom, then closed it with a _slam_.

Raivis braced himself.

"Are you fucking kidding me?!"

"Raivis, what were you thinking?"

 _"This_ is why I told you to stay put, dammit!"

"We said lie low, no secret agendas—"

"Just because Ivan let you leave the dinner table, that doesn't mean—"

"We made those decisions to protect you!"

"He gave you a way out, and then—"

"The only advantage we have over Russia is that we're a team. But—"

"—you go and test him even _further!?"_

"—that's meaningless if you go running off on a secret mission; even _Gilbert_ knew that!"

Prussia took a breath to agree, then his face fell as he registered Eduard's words. "Wait, what's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you still have a lot to learn about how things work around here, Gilbert, and until you develop a sense of self-preservation, I ask that you kindly not put any more ideas into our little brother's head—"

"Hey, I was just trying to give the kid a chance to prove himself, alright? Maybe I did fuck up, but at least I can recognize potential when I see it—"

"Potential?" Toris scoffed. "The only 'potential' we can exercise in this house is to obey orders! Haven't you seen enough in the last two days to figure that out?"

"How the hell is Latvia supposed to grow into a strong nation if all he ever does is do what he's told!?"

"He _can't_ grow into a strong nation, the only thing he can do is _survive!"_

"Yeah, well maybe if you would give him a chance—"

"You have _no_ right to speak on his behalf when YOU are the reason he is about to be interrogated, Prussia!"

"Toris is right, Gilbert, you're out of line."

"Well _excuse me_ for daring to step into the family drama when you LITERALLY just told me I was a part of it! I'm not the one who decided to go running off like a maniac during dinner, that was Latvia's choice! It's not my fault the kid is practically suicidal—"

"Oh, so you're the expert on Raivis now? I'm sorry, but I thought we just established that you've known him for a grand total of _two days—_ "

"Yeah, well if that's the case then how come he likes me so much, huh!? Maybe he's sick of you two, did you ever think of that?"

"Raivis is _our_ little brother, we're the only ones who know what it takes to protect him—"

"So disobeying Ivan to his face is 'protecting him' now, Eduard?!"

"EVERYONE JUST _SHUT UP!"_

The three nations whipped around to face Raivis, and the bedroom fell silent save for his shaking breaths.

All he had to do, was to unbutton his uniform and take out the crumpled envelope.

It was the moment Raivis had played out in his mind a hundred times over as he lay in bed with his head pounding from a concussion, or did chores with the sting of betrayal that not even Prussia believed in him. He had told himself that as soon as he showed the letter to his brothers and Prussia, they would praise him and congratulate him and apologize for the way they had treated him, and everything would be perfect.

So why now, when he was here, when the hardest part was over and _he had the letter_ —why did it feel so wrong?

Russia was coming to interrogate him, maybe within minutes. Russia might search their room. Russia might find the letter. Russia might punish them all for something only Raivis had done.

Is that how Prussia wanted to discover he represented the GDR, or that his brother still cared about him? Through the tormented protests of Raivis trying to snatch the letter from Russia's huge gloved hands? Or even worse, watching Russia rip it to shreds?

He couldn't show them the letter. Not here, not now. Because the letter was never meant for him, nor Eduard, nor Toris. It was written for _Prussia,_ from a young nation across the iron curtain who clung to the belief that his big brother was still alive. And as much as it pained Raivis to admit, it would be wrong of him to use Prussia and Germany's situation to glorify himself.

Slowly, his hand fell from his uniform.

"We don't have—time…"

Raivis's voice was a cracked whisper. He tried again, "We don't have _time_ for this. Russia is coming to interrogate me. We have to decide what to do."

The tension in the room evaporated as his brothers accepted this fact.

"Fuck," Prussia cursed in German, pacing to the far end of the room with a hand pressed to his forehead. Toris fell onto his mattress to stare at the floor in numb shock.

The weight of defeat hung over Raivis's shoulders. That had been his moment, and he had just given it away. It had come, it had gone, and he would never get a chance to prove himself again.

"Raivis."

He looked up to lock eyes with Eduard.

"The reason for this entire plan, was so that we would be prepared in case Russia decided to interrogate you again."

Toris gasped, "Eduard!"

"I _understand_ the situation is different this time. The deal is off, there's nothing to keep Russia from hurting you. But if you would like, we can still carry out that plan."

"Eduard, _no—"_

"Let him decide, okay?" Eduard snapped, and Raivis blinked in surprise. "You're the one who has to face Russia, not us. So the decision is yours."

Raivis didn't understand. Eduard… didn't know about the letter, right?

"W… why?" he asked, stunned.

"Because I trust you."

Raivis commanded himself not to cry. He felt all eyes in the room on him, waiting for some kind of plan, looking to _him_ for leadership.

 _What can we do? Any step we take to disobey Russia will just make him even more angry! If I involve the three of them, we'll_ all _be interrogated! Unless… Russia plans on doing that anyway? I mean at this point, do we have anything to lose?_

Raivis closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened them, he met Eduard with a stern gaze.

"We go through with the plan. Eduard and Prussia switch places, then you sneak into the kitchen while Russia is interrogating me. But no matter what happens, _don't_ _do_ _anything,_ okay? We still don't know if Russia plans to punish all of us, and if there's a chance I can save you guys, then I don't want you involved."

Prussia frowned, "Then… what's the point of Eddy being in the kitchen?"

"I—I-I just don't want to be alone…"

Eduard took a shaky breath, and for a moment Raivis thought his brother would cry. "Are you sure about this?"

Raivis nodded.

Eduard pushed up his glasses. "Alright, then."

"Ne… ne, ne, _ne… "_ Toris rocked on the bed, fingers tangled in his hair. "I am _not_ going to sit here and do nothing while the two of you are out there—"

"You don't have a choice, this is Raivis's decision. Gilbert, let's get ready."

Prussia sent Raivis a worried look, then his jaw tightened as he seemed to accept there was nothing he could do to change their situation. He strode to the dresser where Eduard rummaged for extra night clothes.

Raivis's stomach twisted with nausea. From the beginning, he had known there was a possibility Russia could interrogate him again, but now it was happening,and it felt so fast!

_I know I said I can handle it, and Eduard trusts me, but… but this is insane, I-I can't do this!_

His eyes fell on Toris, and Raivis realized he wasn't the only one spiraling. He took a deep breath, fighting his own fears as he walked up to his older brother.

"Hey," he whispered, placing a hand on Toris's shoulder. "Viss būs labi."

Bangs fell in Toris's face as he lifted his head. His voice came out a cracked whine as he said in Polish,

"I spent _seven years_ trying to prevent this."

"I know," Raivis whispered, switching into the language he knew would remind Toris of home. He folded his brother into a hug. "Thank you for protecting us."

It seemed ironic—the Lithuanian would be the safest out of all of them, yet he was suffering the most. _Because he would rather put himself in danger than let us get hurt. Oh Toris, you shouldn't have to live like this._

"You know," Raivis whispered. "I'm going to get you to smile again."

Toris's shoulders lurched with a sob.

"I'm serious. You better watch out, Toris. You won't see it coming, either."

"Aš tave myliu."

"Idiot. I'm not gonna die."

A breathy laugh.

"See? Told ya."

Eduard pulled two pairs of pajamas from the dresser and tossed them onto the bed. "You two should get changed. We don't have much time."

Raivis lightly pushed at Toris, and the Lithuanian reluctantly let him go. Emerald eyes darted across Raivis's face, then Toris's lips lifted into a trembling smile and his hand slipped from Raivis's hair.

It was then that reality hit Raivis in the chest:

He was going to face Russia alone.

His gaze fell to Prussia, pleading for some kind of affirmation. And to his complete surprise, Prussia winked.

_You'd make a damn good superpower._

_No wonder Russia has knocked you out so many times—he doesn't stand a chance against you!_

_I know it's scary, kid. But that's why I'm asking you, because you're the only one who's got the guts to do this._

And with that simple gesture, Raivis realized he didn't need his brothers, or even Prussia to praise or acknowledge him to gain the courage to face Russia.

He just needed to _believe_ that he could.

* * *

_Eduard awoke to a pitch blackness that reeked with the metallic tang of spilled blood._

_A moan escaped his throat, the exhale of air grating like sandpaper. His face pressed into a cold, sticky surface. He struggled to push himself up, but a pain like fire roared in his back and he collapsed onto the cement with the rattle of chains._

" _Russia left you on your back," a small voice said from the darkness. "I turned you over."_

_Eduard reached out, chains sliding across the floor as he groped for the source of the voice._

" _R… Raivis…"_

_A sniff echoed around them, and he realized the boy was crying. "What's left of me."_

" _I… I'm sorry," Eduard rasped._

" _For what?"_

" _I'm sorry I couldn't protect you…"_

" _Don't say that; this wasn't your fault."_

_Eduard didn't know what to say. How was he to explain this? Over six-hundred years of being occupied by foreign powers, and he had never seen anything like it._

_Raivis took a shaky breath. "I remember Sweden telling stories about Russia. Stories about—what he turned into on the battlefield. He said it was like watching a monster rip into his prey. No mercy. No humanity. Just—a soldier of ice, crafted by his leaders for centuries."_

_He swallowed. "To be honest, I thought the stories were just rumors. Even if Russia was as crazy as Sweden made him out to be, th-that was reserved for the battlefield, right?" His voice cracked as he continued, "Do—do you think it's something we did? Is this our fault?"_

" _No," Eduard said. "Russia was angry because Lithuania left."_

" _But we didn't know! We don't even talk to him!"_

" _I know—"_

" _He WHIPPED us, Eduard! What kind of an empire does that to his subordinates!? And now we're chained in some creepy dungeon; this isn't even a prison; this is under Russia's_ house!" _Raivis was shaking so much, Eduard could hear the chains clinking. "I-I think there's something wrong with Russia. You saw his eyes, right? And his voice, the way he talked… it was like he was a different person…"_

_Eduard shuddered at the memory of a mad violet glow, the animal-like snarl as gloved hands strapped him to the whipping post. Raivis was right—it was as if their master had been possessed by a beast._

Unless… what we just witnessed was the real Russia, and he's been faking the pleasant exterior all along.

_Eduard pushed the thought away._

_"Our aristocracies get along with the Russian court and we're the Empire's only access to the Baltic Sea. Russia even calls us his 'family'—as much as I disagree with that statement, it's entirely illogical for him to abuse us."_

" _But he_ did," _Raivis whispered. "I'm scared, Eduard. What… what if this happens again?"_

_Eduard reached into the blackness, chains dragging across the ground until his fingers brushed the fabric of Raivis's uniform._

" _Don't worry," he rasped. "No matter what happens, I'll be here to protect you."_

* * *

_Thump, thump, thump-thump THUMP_

The pound of rapid footsteps resonated like death descending the stairs. Eduard's hands curled around Gilbert's bedsheets as the door to the Baltics' bedroom was flung open.

A snarled sentence he couldn't catch, a yelp that sounded as though Russia had yanked Raivis straight out of bed. Toris's cry tore through the halls:

_"Ivan, NO!"_

A door slammed, and a key clattered as it was hurriedly locked. The door handle rattled as Toris begged,

"NO! No, Ivan, _PLEASE!"_

Eduard threw aside the sheets; this was happening faster than anticipated, and Toris's reaction was proof there was no time to lose. He staggered to the door, flinging it open just as the pounding of Russia's footsteps reached the kitchen.

Eduard dropped to his hands and knees to crawl up the stairs. A sharp gasp echoed from above:

"No… No, please sir, not a chair…"

_Chair?_

Eduard heard a scuffle from the kitchen, and Raivis's pleas broke into panicked sobs:

" _No!_ I'll do anything, please, just not—No, no, no, oh _god!_ Russia, PLEASE don't! Plea-ea— _mphhh!"_

The boy's sobs were cut off with a muffled scream.

Eduard sprinted up the staircase, bandages pulling tight against his back. He burst out of the stairwell, but his foot caught on the last step and his hands and knee slammed into the floor. His vision swam with color from the kitchen's bright lights as he struggled to make out the scene before him.

Russia stepped away from a wooden chair that had been placed in front of the kitchen cabinets. Eduard's stomach dropped when he saw his little brother bound like a hostage.

Thick ropes secured Raivis to the chair, wrists crossed behind his back. A rag had been tied around his head, pulling his lips into a terrified grimace. Raivis bucked uselessly at the ropes as he craned his neck up at Russia with pleading eyes.

Eduard forgot everything Raivis had told him about staying back. He pushed himself off the floor, arms and legs shaking from the pain—

Russia crossed the room and whirled around to face Raivis with the flourish of his coat. He pulled something out in a smooth motion, and Eduard barely registered the object was too small to be a pipe or whip before the mansion exploded with a sound he knew all too well:

_BAM! BAM-BAM-BAM! BAM!_

Toris screamed.

The pistol did not shake. Neither did Russia's face light up with a cruel smile. No—the empty expression was one devoid of any soul, any heart or human emotion. It was the look of an executioner—cold eyes that ignored the screams of men and women begging for mercy, unmoved by the sight and smell of spilled blood.

Eduard fell to his knees. His first breath shook his chest, eyes stinging with the burn of salt.

_You… you, with all your talk of 'family'—you are no better than the tyrants you claim to defend us from. You are the product of their mastery, a warrior forged by the flames of hell. You breathe its fires onto everything you touch, and your feeble attempt to tack 'morality' onto your actions only adds insult to injury. Oh, if only you could see yourself, Russia. See the inhumanity in your eyes, and try to spit your sweet lies of 'family' just ONE more time._

A soft whimper echoed through the kitchen, and Eduard dared to look at Raivis. The first thing that struck him was the absence of blood. The chair clattered as the boy shook, eyes screwed shut, hands balled into fists. And just as teary violets split open, Eduard noticed the bullet holes in the cabinet behind him. His eyes darted from one splintered fracture to the next:

_One, two, three, four, five._

_Five._

Five bullet holes. Five missed shots.

Tears streamed out of Raivis's eyes, soaking into the gag as he and Eduard came to the same conclusion:

It had all been for show.

Russia lowered the gun. He took long strides towards Raivis, and the boy flinched—but Russia walked past him. He opened a cabinet, reaching inside to take out a glass and a vodka bottle. The kitchen echoed with the trickle of alcohol. Russia slid the glass to the edge of the counter, then walked around the chair to face Raivis.

Russia flicked a knife from his pocket and knelt behind the chair. Eduard scrambled to the wall, careful to conceal himself in shadow. From the kitchen he heard the sawing of rope being cut, and he peered around the entryway to watch Raivis's binds fall to the floor. A gloved finger pulled the gag past the boy's wet lips so it hung around his neck. Russia took the glass from the countertop and offered it to Raivis.

"Drink."

The boy reached for the glass with trembling hands. Vodka sloshed as Raivis rose it to his lips and threw back the shot.

"More?" Russia asked, and Raivis nodded. Once again Russia filled the glass. Cool eyes watched as the boy downed it. Eduard tensed when Russia got down on one knee, so that he was eye level with his little brother.

"Do you feel that?" he whispered. "That bitter taste of bile in your mouth—a white-hot _heat_ which left you completely and utterly exhausted?"

Raivis didn't answer, shrinking into the chair as if trying to put more distance between him and the monster kneeling before him.

" _That_ , my dear Latvia, is the fear of death."

Russia reached forward to cup a giant hand around Raivis's face. Violet eyes widened in terror as a thumb smeared a tear from his cheek.

"The line between beast and human is a thin one, but clearly drawn. If you are afraid to die, you live a life worth preserving. But if you sneer at death like an old inconvenience, you have become a creature no human can tame. Something dark, something _other_ —lost in a past so black and twisted, nobody can ever pull you out." Russia's lips flickered into a sad smile. "I feared death once, Latvia. And maybe I was human then. But that was stolen from me centuries ago."

Every cell in Eduard’s body screamed for him to run to his brother's rescue—how _dare_ Russia touch Raivis like that, speak to him so _sweetly_ as if to a child! But Eduard had given Raivis the lead, and he needed to trust that he could handle this.

Russia stood and threw back the vodka bottle. The kitchen echoed with loud gulps.

"Do you know what happens when a nation is shot in the vitals? Say, the heart or head."

"No, sir."

"The tissue starts to heal immediately. A dead nation can revive in as little as fifteen minutes… but that is only when the vitals have recovered. It doesn't matter what horrid condition the rest of the body is in. So—"

Russia took a step back, holding out a thumb and forefinger to mimic the shape of a pistol. He squinted one eye, pointing the 'gun' to Raivis's chest.

"Say I had really shot you. One bullet in the head, one in the heart, and three in your stomach. First, you would die. Then your body would slowly start to regenerate, until brain tissue and heart had regrown enough to function. Your chest would be punctured with holes, your lungs filled with blood. Your body would jolt awake, but you would simultaneously drown.

"Say I shot you again—you would die. But with each shot, more damage is done—bones are fractured, muscles ripped open. And each time, you wake up with only your heart or brain functioning."

Russia's expression became distant, as if recalling a memory. "Shot, gasp, shot, gasp… over and over. Until the floor is pooled with your blood and your chest is littered with bullets. Can you imagine such a situation, Latvia? How long would it take for you to lose that fear? The third time? The tenth? How long before you are welcoming the bullets instead of dreading them? How long until you laugh at your captors for attempting such a foolish task, instead of begging them to stop? _That_ is the line I am talking about, Latvia. And _that_ is the line I pray you and your brothers never have to cross."

"Did—did that ever happen to you?" Raivis stared into his empty glass. "The shooting, I mean," he added quietly.

"Da."

"They… they were trying to kill you?"

A wry smile. "Of course. Although I was strictly instructed to keep that part a secret." Russia caught Raivis's puzzled gaze. "It would look bad if our Great Leader was rumored to have murdered his own nation, da? Comrade Stalin would burn this mansion to the ground if he found out I dared breathe a word of what happened fifteen years ago."

"Then… why are you telling me?"

With a giant stride Russia closed the distance between them, slamming a hand on the back of the chair and bending over to hiss in Raivis's face, "Because you and your brothers turn over _rocks_ for reasons to hate me, and just for once, I want it to be perfectly clear whose fault it is when the three of you are scraping ration slops from the bottom of the bowl in Kolyma."

Raivis sucked in a gasp. "Kol—"

Russia jerked his head towards the table. "Sit, I'll get more vodka." He let go of the chair, walking past Raivis and towards the cabinets.

Seeing an opportunity, Eduard risked peering around the wall to lock gazes with his little brother. The unspoken question hung between them:

_Kolyma?_

Mention of the Siberian labor camp confused Eduard—Russia spoke as if he and his brothers were already slated for deportation.

_Is that why he didn't bother to punish us at dinner?_

Eduard strained his memory for hints. _After the agents left, Toris mentioned something about the MGB. But I cut him off, and he didn't bring it up again. Maybe he knew something…_

With a horrified shared look, the two brothers realized Russia was telling the truth.

"Look on the bright side," Russia chimed from the kitchen, opening a cabinet to pull out more vodka bottles. "You get to enjoy your last night in a heated building drinking the best alcohol this country has to offer. Not a bad way to remember your home, da Latvia?"

Raivis lowered the glass between his knees. "When."

"Take your seat—"

" _When,"_ Raivis pressed, spinning around to glare at the Russian. His voice rose with each word, "When will they take us? Or are you going to pile us all in your car tomorrow and drive us to the prison yourself?"

A cabinet door closed with a _SLAM._ Russia's back was to Eduard; he couldn't see his master's face.

"You say you want to explain whose fault it is.”

"Latvia—"

"Well it seems perfectly clear to _me_ whose fault it is—"

"I said _sit at the fucking_ table, Latvia."

Raivis's face darkened into a scowl, then he stood up from the chair and pulled the gag over his head, throwing it onto the floor with a _slap._ He strode to the table and pulled up a chair, its legs scraping loudly against the floor. It struck Eduard that Raivis was acting not like a helpless victim, but an experienced nation who was sick of being manipulated.

Russia crossed the kitchen and set several bottles onto the table, then took his seat across from Raivis. The Latvian watched the Russian's hands with a dark gaze as he poured another glass and slid it towards him.

"To warmth," Russia toasted, then added with a smile, "May its memory linger in your bones."

The two nations clinked glasses before throwing back their shots. Eduard shivered.

After downing the vodka, Russia and Raivis set down their glasses in quick succession: _thu-thunk_. Two pairs of violets sparked in the air, and for a moment Eduard could have sworn they weren't master and servant, but two sovereign nations sizing each other up at a world meeting.

"Do _not_ interrupt me," Russia warned.

"Don't lie," Raivis said evenly.

To Eduard's surprise, the Russian extended a hand across the table. Raivis jumped, not expecting such an immediate response. After some hesitation he reached forward, and the two nations shook on it.

Eduard angled his head to better hear the low timbre of Russia's voice:

"You're probably expecting to hear about my arrest by the NKVD—how they hauled me, kicking and cursing, to the torture chambers of the Gulag." Russia leaned forward, his face lighting up with a lifeless grin. "But Comrade Stalin found many more… _effective_ ways to humiliate me before he became arrogant enough to try and take my life.

"If there is one cold, hard lesson the Revolution taught me, it is the price of change. Standing in the smoking wastelands of the Eastern Front during the Great War, I swore to myself that I would be willing to bear it—to shoulder that weight of the cost, in the name of throwing off the powers that had tormented me for centuries. I knew I would have to spill blood—royal blood, _Romanov_ blood—the very beings God had 'chosen' to rule me.

But I had watched one tsar after another confess only to turn his back on the altar and slaughter thousands. In an era fraught with uncertainty, there was one, solid truth I could cling to: That there is no God. And therefore, not a soul or being could judge me for tearing into my own chest like a rabid beast.

It was through my own tears that I watched them change me. Through the voices shrieking in my head, the hands clawing at my sleeves begging me to let them live. It was the nobility we were slaughtering, you see—top rungs of society, many of whom knew me by name. Of course Nikolas, his wife, their children… but the screams in that basement were only a drop in the ocean of betrayals that haunted me.

How could they know I had become a Revolutionary? Me, with my glistening mansion in Petrograd and harem of servants. Ivan Zimavich Braginsky—the Tsar's armpiece, dripping with the wealth and glory of Imperial Russia, kissing ladies' hands and offering toasts in fluent French at royal dinner parties; and _oh_ how they were magnificent.

But I was not like them. I was not bound to the confines of their glass prisons, a slave to their lifestyle of pomp and circumstance. No… for I represented _all_ of the country, not just the golden veins of it. And though they could not see through my silken uniforms and well-practiced waltz, I was rotting from the inside out. I would return home from those parties and vomit for hours, as if my body itself were screaming injustice.

So of course they were shocked, betrayed, horrified when they saw my face in the mob of men tearing their lives to shreds. But once the nobles were gone, the Whites stood in the way… and by then, nobody knew my name. I felt that in my attempt to rip out the sickness, I had clawed at myself until nothing was left but loose flesh hanging from my skeleton.

Perhaps that is how every nation feels after a Civil War—gasping for leadership, desperate and parched for the mere _absence_ of chaos.

But less than a decade after I had climbed over the back of my Imperial corpse and declared the war over, Joseph Vissarionovich Stalin looked at me with that spark of madness in his eyes and told me it had just begun.

I'm sure you recall, from your brief education in 1940, our 'problem' with the kulaks. The Party had declared an entire class of wealthy peasants as enemies of the state. I will never forget the day the Politburo made the decision to wipe them out. I sat through that meeting, listening to my politicians debate the lives of millions of my children. And at the end, when the decision was made, Stalin approached me and handed me a pistol. And with a bitter smile he said, 'If you don't kill them, they will kill you.'

So we cleaned them out. Like scum, we scraped them out of their houses and shipped them to Siberia. And I remember standing on a train platform when a young boy holding his mother's hand passed me to climb into the boxcar. And for this one moment, he locked eyes with me.

I don't know what it was—why that boy was different than any of the others I had shot. But in that moment I saw a cold acceptance in his eyes: 'Of course you aren't going to save us. You are just going to stand there and watch us be carted away… and all because you wanted _change._ '

I threw up, right there on the train platform, in front of my men. They were making jokes about it for weeks afterwards: 'Oh, don't let Braginsky near the children. He's got a weak stomach, that one. Can't even kill a Capitalist.'

The Bolsheviks had become just like the nobility they so hated—unable to see that beneath the sickle-and-hammer NKVD cap, I still represented the kulak class. I clung to Stalin's promise: The hope that, once the kulaks had been taken care of, all of the USSR would become the same. And maybe, when that 'sameness' had been achieved, the voices in my head would finally stop.

So, I continued to do what I had always done with the tsars—I put my head down. I obeyed orders. And I was able to desensitize myself to the suffering… until I began to hear rumors of food shortages in the Ukraine.

Part of that fateful decision in January of 1930 had been to collectivize all farms. Much of this would have to be done in the Ukrainian and Belarusian SSR's… so after a quick briefing, my sisters were sent home with instructions to do their part.

The Party kept me busy with kulak roundups, factory inspections and Politburo meetings, so I never had time to visit; nevertheless I made a point to write them often. Assuming they were having the same doubts regarding the repercussions of the Five-Year Plan, I tried to remain positive. My letters were lined with sweet lies of a bright future and sacrifice for the 'Greater Good.'

In truth, I wanted to believe the propaganda I was regurgitating. Because if it wasn't true—if production and standard of living weren't on the rise, if Stalin's ruthless policies didn't catch up our industrialization with the rest of Europe—then all of my sacrifices would have been for nothing. I _wanted_ to believe in Communism, so much that my very bones ached.

It started as rumors—just faint whispers I caught on the street and at work. First it was food shortages. Then it was starvation. Beggars at train platforms, I heard. People dying on the streets like flies. But the newspapers said grain production was up. Not a word in the press, and Stalin continually emphasized how 'happy' the Ukrainians were. When at last I realized the reason for my sister's slight change in handwriting—the work of a forger—I boarded a train for Kharkiv.

I will never forget the uneasy feeling that settled as the train pushed on towards the Ukraine. Аt our first stop, I jumped when _something_ was lifted to my window. In my disgust it took a few moments to realize this thing was a _child—_ a toddler, perhaps two years old. Its head and belly were bloated, appendages bones that dangled like twigs. Huge eyes rolled unseeing in sunken sockets, ladder of a ribcage supported by wrinkled, skeletal hands. I shifted in my seat to see that a woman was holding the toddler to my compartment window. Her cheeks were sunken, lines carved into her face. She was dressed in nothing but rotting rags, and cool empty eyes met mine as she held up her child to the window.

In my horror, I looked past her to see more heaps of rags and empty eyes gathered around the platform. They watched the passengers like ghosts, and the citizens largely ignored them, save for a few horrified glances. At last the train pulled away, and the starving child slipped from my view.

Every platform was the same, only the number of beggars increased. At one platform, a hand clawed at my window. At another, a teenage boy stood and pressed a gaunt face against the compartment, staring at me. Wails started to rise up—a twisted moan of torture that came from the depths of humanity's basic need for food.

By the time I got off the platform in Kharkiv, I could hear screams. I tried to ignore the bodies on the streets: Dried, bony carcasses that reeked of rot. I saw one man collapse—just crumple, like paper left out in the rain, into the sidewalk. I saw children eating grass and flowers.

While the city would normally be filled with the bustle of people to work, now it was an echo of slow, agonizing death. There was an eerie stillness—no dogs, or cats. With horror I realized they must have all been eaten. The people I did see had bloated stomachs, making them look alien. They had been drinking water to abate their hunger… but nothing worked. I could see it in their eyes—an emptiness, husks of human beings just fighting to survive.

By the time I had reached the outskirts of the city, I was running. I only glanced at the gaunt faces that passed to check if one of them was Katya—oh god, did _she_ look like that? At last I came to her house, my boots crunched up the gravel path, a quick glance at what was left of her garden and it was nothing but twisted clumps of dried mud, windows smashed in and oh _god_ the door hung ajar on a single hinge.

I stopped on the porch, forcing my emotions under control, struggling to catch my breath before pushing the battered door open with a low creak.

The air was dusty; a thin film of dirt on the floor and a choking darkness told me she couldn't be living here anymore. But a point of light caught my eye—a single candle, set on the floor and burning in a small orange glow. It was so out of place in the abandoned musk—proof that life had been here, and recently. I slowly approached it, then caught sight of a brighter glow; I leaned around the hall and my throat clogged with a gasp.

The entire hallway was lined with candles. Small, battered, dug up from the secret stores of churches all across the Ukraine. They glistened within their glass encasings and gold caps—red, green, yellow and pale blue light casting an eerie rainbow on the walls.

Three things struck me in that moment. One: The house was clearly abandoned, but the candles so well-attended that not a single one had been left unlit. Two: These were memorial candles, used for national tragedies or to commemorate someone's death. And three: The hallway I now faced led straight to my sister's room.

A new horror seized me, one I had not allowed myself to feel in years. As I neared, I caught sight of other trinkets lining the hallway: Hand-written notes, twigs tied together in a makeshift bouquet, pebbles and kopeks placed among wooden icons. Woven threads of blue and yellow ribbon, a necklace bearing a cast iron trident, even a Ukrainian _flag_ oh god that was the highest of treason…

I marveled the NKVD hadn't found this place, and then a shudder coursed through me imagining what would happen if they did. My sister's home had become a place of refuge, a hub for anti-Bolshevik sentiment. The treasures lining the hallway were family heirlooms, precious symbols of nationalism that could get a whole man's family shot. And yet they lay them here, in _Ukraine's_ house, as if it were a sanctuary immune to the horrors ravaging their country.

Tearing my attention away from the walls, I could now make out footsteps in the dust leading to my sister's room. Men's shoes, women's shoes, bare feet, the small prints of children. A sickness twisted in my gut; this hallway was well-trafficked.

I jumped when a wail tore through the house—it was a woman's voice. I broke into a run, through the open door of Katya's room… and the image of what I saw will be forever branded into my memory.

A table had been placed in the center of the bedroom, all other furniture cleared out. A white sheet trimmed with lace had been laid over it. The candles and trinkets lining the hall were nothing compared to the mountain of icons, candles, flags, hats, embroidered cloth, ribbons that were placed in front of the table, the bright glow casting flickering shadows in the dark room.

And there—laying face up on the table dressed in traditional embroidered vyshyvanka, bright red skirt and a wreath of flowers placed over blond brittle hair… was my sister.

Had she not been so extravagantly displayed, it would have been impossible to recognize her. Her arms lay brittle at her side, fingers like that of a skeleton resting on the table. Her skin had turned a husky grey, dried and wrinkled like leather. Her cheekbones sunk in, neck so thin it couldn't have supported her head, which lay on a pillow.

Kneeled in front of the shrine—for it _was_ a shrine, I realized with horror—was a woman. She rocked back and forth on her knees, raising bony hands to the air as she cried out in mourning.

And then I did something I had not allowed myself to do since we murdered the Romanovs:

I fell to my knees and wept.

Everything—all the guilt and self-hate I had been fighting back, all the lies, the empty faces of my children boarding trains for Siberia, the blood staining my hands—crashed down on me at once. All of all my sacrifices, my determination to make myself better _no matter the cost_ —and now this.

It was too much.

For all I knew, my sister was dead. I had promised her, I had _promised_ I would protect her, that everything would be alright… and now she was stretched across a table while her starving people wept at her feet.

It wasn't the worst way for a nation to die, I realized—and my weeping turned into great, heaving sobs.

Each candle, each hand-written note and ribbon was a testament to her people's love for her—a burning loyalty no soldier or collectivization policy could stamp out. Katya wasn't left to rot in her own bed… no, somehow word had spread that she was the representation, and people had flocked from miles away to pay their respects. To cry, just as this woman did, to pray, to kiss her forehead and leave notes of appreciation.

I had seen nations die before; usually they faded away without ceremony. But what the Ukrainians didn't realize is their _love_ for my sister was more powerful than any prayer. Their sheer force of determination—to create this place, to surround her with symbols of nationalism despite the risks—was the single thing keeping her alive.

What hit me stronger than anything, was the realization that had _I_ been the one to collapse of starvation, had _I_ been the one laying near-dead on a table—my people would not have done the same. They would pass my coffin, sneering, spitting, hating all I had done to destroy their lives.

And had the Revolution never happened… would it be any different? They hated me now for trying to change, and had I not, they would have hated me for staying the same.

Kneeling there in my sister's mausoleum, I was faced with the reality of my own inevitable death: Dumped off a bridge into a freezing river. No ceremony, and even fewer tears. And Winter would sink his claws into my non-beating heart and take me back… laughing and laughing and laughing.

* * *

HISTORY NOTES

**The Russian Revolution**

Even after the Russian Revolution of 1905 pressured Tsar Nikolas II to create a Duma which decentralized absolute monarchist power in the Russian Empire, there were many loopholes through which he retained absolute power. Those dissatisfied with these "reforms" largely remained subdued until Russia's entry into WWI in 1914, which was devastating to Russia's armies and caused severe food shortages. It was these dire conditions in which the Bolsheviks were able to take power first in Petrograd on November 7, 1917, and then later secure their control over Russia largely through force. As a final statement to the shrinking and fleeing nobility, the Bolsheviks murdered the newly-abdicated Tsar Nikolas II and his family in the basement of their home in June of 1918. This ended 370 years of Tsarist rule over Russia.

**Russian Civil War**

While the Bolsheviks had secured power in Petrograd, they faced immense resistance from fractured groups all across Russia. The nation was plunged into a Civil War which lasted from 1917 until 1923. There were an estimated 7 to 12 thousand casualties of the war, most of them civilian. Russia suffered both Red and White terrors, during which soldiers would slaughter innocent people and burn entire villages for belonging to the "opposite side." The Russian Civil War was fought on all fronts of the Russian Empire, including the Baltic, Central Asia, and the Caucasus, with over 48 belligerents fighting against the Soviets in independence and foreign interventionist groups. (Both the Revolution and the Civil War are incredibly complex and violent time periods of history, which I have merely summarized as a background to Ivan's story. If you are interested in a more detailed account, I recommend watching the film adaptation of Pasternak's _Dr. Zhivago_ directed by David Lean.)

**Dekulakization**

An essential element of Communism is the idea that all land and resources are centralized and owned by the State. This meant that the millions of peasants who owned land, or "kulaks," were a threat to the system. Shortly after the Revolution, Lenin announced plans to completely eliminate the kulak class, but ultimately it was Stalin who carried it out. The decision was made to confiscate and collectivize all peasant land on January 30, 1930, three years after Stalin secured power. All kulaks were assigned to three categories: 1) Those to be shot or imprisoned by the NKVD, 2) Those to be deported after confiscation of their property, and 3) Those to be evicted from their houses and assigned to labor colonies within their own districts. The peasants resisted the collectivization of their property, often refusing to plant grain, slaughtering their livestock, or burning their crops. This resulted in widespread famine which had plagued the USSR ever since its creation. From 1929-1933, an estimated 3 million peasants were killed.

**Five-Year Plans**

After Stalin secured power in 1927, he switched his political stance and opted for complete State control of all production. Five-Year Plans were a set of vigorous production goals set by the State. The goal was to move the USSR from being an agricultural-based economy—an aspect which had made the Russian Empire fall behind on the world stage—to an industrial power. The result was the most rapid industrialization the world has ever seen—by the end of the first plan, the USSR moved from being fifth in the world to second only behind the United States. This called for a complete change of lifestyle for Soviet Citizens, as millions moved into cities and the Soviet "hero" was depicted as one who worked hard for the good of the Union. The plan called for an emphasis on heavy industry, which meant consumer goods were in short supply and low quality. Agricultural resources were also confiscated in favor of supporting the industrial cities, which created famines like the one in Ukraine.

**The Holodomor**

The tragedy which struck Ukraine was so deliberately created, that it is now recognized by 33 countries as genocide. A combination of drought, an inability to recover from previous famines during the Civil War, and government confiscation of all grain and food created a severe famine from 1932-1933. Not only were peasants forbidden from leaving their regions in search of food, but the government hid the tragedy from the rest of the USSR. Those who resisted the confiscations were arrested or killed, and NKVD agents regularly searched individual houses for any hidden grain or bread. An estimated 3 to 7 million people died in the famine, most from starvation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> Viss būs labi: Everything will be okay.  
> Aš tave myliu: I love you.  
> Petrograd: St. Petersburg, renamed in 1914 after the Russians went to war with the Germans and didn't want their capital to have a German name. "Grad" is the Old Church Slavonic root for "city."  
> vyshyvanka: a traditional Ukrainian shirt embroidered with local designs or flowers. Vyshyvankas are becoming popular for Ukrainians to wear today as a symbol of national pride.
> 
> I learned about the Holodomor back when I first joined the Hetalia fandom and was reading countries' wikipedia pages. I drafted a scenario for how Ivan would have reacted to the tragedy long before I ever conceptualized DITR. My understanding of both the Holodmor itself and Ukraine as a nation completely changed after visiting Kyiv and seeing how the Ukrainians honor those who were killed in Maidan, and how my Ukrainian friends are dealing with the ongoing war today. Their strength even in the midst of conflict was very moving to me, and so I wanted to write this as a tribute to the Ukrainians' ongoing struggle.
> 
> To see my photos from the Memorial to Holodomor Victims in Kyiv, click [HERE](https://chessna2.tumblr.com/post/181763100807/ch-25-extra-materials)
> 
> Thank you as always for reading!


	26. Сестры — Sisters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here are some more names for you:
> 
> [Katerina Olegivna] Braginskaya (Katyusha/Katya)
> 
> [Natalia Ivanovna] Arlovskaya (Natasha)
> 
> Katya's patronymic comes from Prince Oleg, the founder of Kievan Rus. Natalia's patronymic comes from, unsurprisingly, Ivan. Thanks for reading, and please enjoy the next chapter!

Minutes passed before I was able to gain control of myself. I rose on shaky legs and took a step towards the shrine.

' _No!'_ the woman shrieked, staggering to her feet and flinging herself between me and my sister, arms spread to reveal blue veins zigzagging from her bony wrists into the rags she wore.

'You _get away from her!'_

She picked up a stone from the ground and hurled it at me; it bounced off my chest and skidded across the room.

'Please,' I said, voice cracked from my tears. 'She is my sister.'

The woman stepped back with a gasp. 'Ivan Zimavich?' she breathed, as if the name was only a legend whispered of in Ukrainian folk tales.

'Katya is still alive,' I said, and her eyes grew wide. 'But she’s in dire need of medical treatment. If I take her to Moscow—'

 _'Moscow?'_ the woman scoffed. 'You mean to the center of Soviet Power?'

'She will die if I leave her here, do you understand? This place isn't enough to keep her alive for long. There's still time, I-I have to do _something_ before Winter—'

I cut myself off, realizing my words would mean nothing to this peasant woman. I met her gaunt face with a stern gaze.

'Let me save her. Please.'

Pale blue eyes darted across my face as she debated whether or not to trust me. Her cracked lips pressed into a line.

'You will have to do it in secret. Citizens of the Ukrainian SSR aren't allowed to leave.'

'Wh—'

'Our passports. The police will check; if they see Katerina Olegivna's they won't allow her on the train.'

My eyes widened as I realized the implications of this. Not only were my sister's people starving to death, but they were trapped like animals in a cage.

'A suitcase,' the woman muttered, shaking a bony finger. 'Katerina Olegivna isn't breathing, so she won't suffocate. They would usually check luggage for food, but with your rank…'

We locked eyes, then split up searching the house for any piece of luggage large enough to fit a person.

I felt as though I were picking through the ruins of a bomb—sheets and mattress were ripped off the beds, coils of spring and stuffing visible where they had been slashed open. All the drawers were pulled out and my sister's clothes were strewn across the dusty floor. Glass crunched beneath my boots, and I looked down to see a shattered photograph of me and my sisters.

'Ivan Zimavich!' the woman called from across the house.

I found her struggling to pull something out from under an overturned sitting chair.

'Step back,' I ordered, and easily lifted the chair to reveal a large leather suitcase. The woman flipped it open and it smacked against the floor, puffing out a cloud of dust.

'Pad it with a sheet,' I coughed, covering my mouth with a sleeve as I set off to fetch my sister.

I walked through the tunnel of flickering candles and into the shrine. I shuddered upon seeing Katya's face up close—her skin was grey and taut like leather, eyes sunken into their sockets. Carefully I gathered her into my arms. Her head rolled back and the wreath of flowers fell to the floor with a soft _crunch_.

'Don't worry, sestra,' I whispered. 'I won't let you die.'

The woman helped me fit Katya into the suitcase. We folded her knees and arms, curling her fingers into fists under her chin. She resembled a mummy, or the cast of a victim left to die in Pompeii.

The woman knelt by her nation's side and smoothed Katya's brittle hair with a shaking hand. She whispered something in Ukrainian—a goodbye, perhaps, a promise—then took a deep breath and nodded at me. I closed the suitcase with the _snap_ of golden clasps.

When I strode onto the front porch, I nearly collided into a small group of peasants coming up the steps. One boy clutched a red glass candle, a girl who looked to be about fourteen carried a blue ribbon. I glanced behind them to see a horse-drawn cart stopped by the fence. The beast was also starving, its ribs visible through a mangy mud-caked hide. I recognized the shapes of the burlap sacks in the cart's flatbed.

An elderly man, the only adult in the group, squinted from beneath bushy white brows. 'What the devil? It's one of those damned volunteers… ' He pointed his cane threateningly at me. 'We have no use for scum like you here. Katerina Olegivna is dead; go bother the living.'

There was a horrified gasp, and the red candle dropped into the mud as the boy pointed to the suitcase. 'She's in there! He's taking her away!'

'What!?' the man roared, withered face twisting in rage. He rose the cane above his head, the wood shaking in the air as he barely had the strength to do so. 'You… you _barbarian!'_ With a strong swipe, he struck me across the shoulder. The children scooped up clumps of mud and dirt, throwing them at me.

'Give her back!'

'She's _our_ nation!'

I staggered backwards, shielding my face with an arm. The woman rushed to the front porch.

'Sasha, Zhenya, stop it! This man says Katerina Olegivna is alive! He's taking her to Moscow for medical attention—'

'What can the Muscovites do for her; they don't care about us!' the old man growled. 'You city slickers live such high and mighty lives while we starve to death! Katerina Olegivna has a kind, compassionate heart—if she could speak now, she'd be appalled at the notion of abandoning her own people just to live some pompous life in the capital!'

He banged his cane on a wooden step. 'She stayed here with us, she suffered with us, and now she'll die with us. If you godless Bolsheviks want her to live, then give us our crops back!'

Looking at the angry faces of my sister's people, I realized there was only one thing I could do to convince them. I knelt down on the porch and laid out the suitcase in front of me, then opened it. The two children gasped, dirt-caked fingers rising to their lips in horror.

'Look,' I said gently. 'Katya is dying. You have done well to protect her until now, but she needs medical treatment. Moscow has the best doctors in all the Soviet Union—with their help, I can revive her. I can ask for changes, for the crops to return to the Ukraine. And then I can return her to you.'

'But Comrade,' the boy said, looking at me with hollow eyes. 'First they killed our priests and burned our churches. Then they took our land and our food away. Now they come into our houses and take our silverware, our icons, our money.'

He pointed back to the cart with a shaking finger. 'A week ago, my mama was in there. I found her in the kitchen, just sitting at the table. I-I thought she was taking a nap…' He sniffed and rubbed his cheek with a tattered sleeve. 'Please don't take Katerina Olegivna away from us, Comrade. She's all we have left.'

'And she will be no more if she stays here,' I said in a low voice. 'I promise, I will bring her back.'

The old man let out a grainy sigh. 'To be honest I thought you'd've shot me minutes ago. Not that it would make a difference—I'll be dead soon anyway.' His gaze lingered on Katya, and for a moment I wondered if he had ever fought in battle for her.

'Fine, take her. We can't stop you.'

'But grandpa—!'

'He's a Muscovite with a gun, Sasha. Let him do what he wants.'

The man turned around, grunting under his breath as he made his way down the steps. The girl rushed to his side while the boy stood staring at my sister, lip quivering. Then he bent down, picked up the candle, and followed them back to the cart.

Burlap sacks bumped against the wood as the horse pulled it forward through the mud. As I passed, I heard the boy knock on someone's door:

'Got any?'

Just as the woman had predicted, the police didn't search my luggage. I shouldered into a compartment and unceremoniously shoved the suitcase onto the overhead shelves.

Every beggar peering into our compartment window stared up at it, as if they knew exactly _what_ lay curled up inside. One woman took one glance at the suitcase, then sent me a look of such hatred, I was tempted to hurl it off the train. Instead I turned away and lit a cigarette with shaking hands, ignoring the stares of my fellow passengers.

Collectivization hadn't just been limited to the Ukraine; it had been the policy all across the Soviet countryside. What about the others? Natasha, the Caucasus, the Central Asian SSR's… how many more 'shrines' had been built to house rotting nation carcasses?

In an absurd moment of habit, I worried for you three… until a second later I remembered you were independent. And _relief_ washed over me, confusing me more than any emotion I had felt that day. How backwards was it, that the nations _outside_ of my charge were the fortunate ones?

When at last the train pulled into Moscow, I hailed a taxi—I'd taken one to the train station to avoid being followed—and arrived at the mansion to see a slick black car parked in the driveway. I slid my hand over my pistol, ready to shoot any bastard who stood between me and my own front door.

But the agent didn't try to stop me. Instead he followed me into the house, rattling off a list of 'infractions' which included a false report of my activities for the day and some other string of bullshit which I pointedly ignored. He continued to rot off my ears as I removed my coat and placed the suitcase on the kitchen table:

'—and shortly afterwards we received a report from a taxi driver that you had left the RSFSR without permission! Comrade Stalin was _furious,_ Braginsky, do you even know what that means for the rest of us!? I'll have you know—'

The agent's lecture was cut off with a shriek when I opened the suitcase. As a reflex he drew his pistol, trembling as he pointed it to the greying corpse.

'What—what _is_ that thing!?'

'That,' I said coolly, 'Is my sister.'

The horrified look on the agent's face told me he had not seen someone in such a condition before. Then, I thought bitterly, he had not been to the Ukraine.

'Is it alive?'

'She will be.' I gathered Katya into my arms. The agent took a step back, disgusted. 'Call the Kremlin's best doctors,' I ordered. 'I want them here in less than an hour.'

'Yes, Comrade!'

After laying my sister on the bed of her old room, I spent the next half hour trying to reach the government offices of the other republics. My first call was to the Supreme Soviet of Belarus, and the whole organization devolved into panic upon word that I was asking about Natasha. After much heckling of secretaries and insisting that I was the _head_ representative of the USSR, dammit, and could throw all their families to the Gulag if I so wished—I reached the desk of a very nervous Chairman.

'She's not here,' he said, almost whispering into the receiver.

'What do you mean?' I demanded. God, if they had left her to rot in some field—

'I mean she's not _here_. Comrade Arlovskaya has been relocated to Warsaw—'

I practically shrieked into the phone, ' _What!?'_

'There was no food!' he hissed. 'Poland controls the Western half of her territory; she was making routine business trips anyway. I watched her during those meetings, Braginsky, all she could do was stare at the appetizers with this maddened look in her eyes! We knew it wouldn't solve the famine, but at least she would have food on her plate.'

'And did she agree to this?' I asked, recalling my sister's hate for the Pole. She would rant to me for hours, screeching that he was forcing her people to speak his 'wretched' language, shutting down Belorussian schools and depriving her people of rights.

'Of course not,' the Chairman sighed, the voice of a man who had dared to challenge Natasha's iron will. 'She hated it, but we didn't have a choice. She works for Poland, he gives her three meals a day. That was the agreement.'

I had never been so humiliated. Poland— _Poland,_ that ditzy twig of a boy whom I had easily ripped apart not a century ago, who was only a country at _all_ because of the Allies' flimsy peace treaty—could provide for my own sister better than I could! And now she was scrubbing floors for him, probably enduring his unbearable insults and meaningless requests just so she could eat!

I was furious, but also deeply embarrassed to be relieved—at least if she was being fed, Natasha would not end up like Katya had. The receiver shook with my fury as I slammed it onto the stand; _somebody_ would pay for bringing me down so low.

Similar calls to the Caucasus and Central Asian SSR's revealed famines had also struck there, although none as serious. The nation reps were alive; struggling, but their governments were working as best they could to ensure their health… with one exception.

The poor Kazakh secretary burst into tears upon hearing my name, and connected me straight to the Chairman who begged me to come right away and take Kazakhstan to Moscow. I promised to do so as soon as Katya was treated.

When I opened the door to my office, I ran straight into a young woman carrying—I blinked at the smell, the petals brushing across my face, and confirmed that yes it was indeed true— _flowers._

'Oh!' she yelped. 'Sorry, I didn't see you there, Comrade—'

'No, it was my—' my apology was cut off when another woman sped past, a trail of red ribbons billowing behind her.

'Back, BACK you idiots!' a voice echoed down the hall. 'The guest room, the GUEST ROOM! No, you dithering moron, that's the way to the office—who pays you people!? Damn, that's not going to fit through the door. I'll tell you what, if you just _pivot_ —there we go—can we get some extra hands over here!?'

I followed the voice, weaving through a swarm of people with their hands full of ribbons and flowers and wreaths, all the state colors of red, yellow, and white.

When I broke into the foyer, I couldn't believe my eyes.

A thin man in a suit stood on the staircase, shouting orders at an army of people who had filled my house, all of them carrying what looked like state funeral decorations. Flowers, ribbons, candles, banners—bold letters rose above the chandelier as two men hoisted it up with ropes:

_GLORY TO OUR UKRAINIAN HEROES_

Another:

_THE PEOPLE OF THE UKRAINIAN SSR MARCH ON TO VICTORY_

A group of about five people were struggling to get a giant wreath of flowers up the stairs, while a line of doctors in lab coats looked very confused as they were told to wait until the absurd thing was carried to—and this is where I realized what was going on—'Comrade Braginskaya's room.'

'What is the meaning of this!?' I demanded, but the man in the suit didn't hear me as he was preoccupied with directing the giant wreath.

'A little to the left… that's it… now, down… Jesus, Ilyin, it's a _staircase,_ not a fucking golf course—'

I tripped over three people before finally making it to the staircase.

'—no, I _told you,_ Comrade Stalin said to wait until the decorations are in place— _oh_ _hello,_ Comrade Braginsky!' The last words jumped up an octave as I hoisted the man off his feet by his necktie.

'What the hell is this?' I hissed. 'I asked for doctors, not the Ministry of Floral Arrangements.'

'Comrade Stalin—'

'Comrade Stalin does not live here. This is MY house, and I want you and all of your misguided worker bees to _get the fuck out.'_

'The flowers, too?'

'YES!' I roared, startling one of the men carrying the wreath. It hit the staircase with a _thump_ and another man howled in pain.

'The flowers, the ribbons, your hideous banners— _OUT!'_

I looked down to see everyone in the foyer frozen in fear. A red tapestry parachuted to the floor.

'You heard Comrade Braginsky,' the man said, as if he were in control of the entire situation and not dangling five centimeters from the stair step. 'Clear out!'

A beat of silence, then the foyer burst into a frenzy as the workers reversed their direction and rushed to the front door.

'Comrade… if you could please let me down…?'

I dropped him without looking, and the man let out a yelp as he crashed into the stairs. 'You said Comrade Stalin ordered this?' I asked, not bothering to hide my disgust.

'Yes,' he said, staggering to his feet and straightening his suit. 'He said you would be returning with Comrade Braginskaya—'

' _Did_ he?' I said, narrowing my eyes at the slogan that sagged to the floor as the men untied the ropes.

'Yes!' the man laughed breathlessly, then rummaged through is pockets with shaking hands. 'He even wrote a letter for you! Ah, here it is—'

I snatched the paper from him with a _snap._ He jumped back a little, then rushed to help his poor men with the giant wreath.

The letter was sloppily typed on regular printing paper. I unfolded it to read the block letters:

_My Dearest Comrades,_

_It is with the humblest joy that we, the Politburo, welcome Comrade Braginskaya to Moscow. Thanks to the immovable strength of the Soviet people of the Ukrainian SSR, the Soviet Union marches on to glory! Long live the Ukrainian SSR! Long live Communism!_

—T. Stalin

I ripped the note into shreds, and a woman rushing up the staircase dropped to her knees to pick up the torn pieces. It was with that note, that I realized the purpose of this entire charade: it was a prank.

Such a ridiculous entourage could never have been assembled in the short amount of time I spent in my office. Stalin must have been anticipating my return since the taxi driver reported me. The agent stationed here had been a mere alarm system—the moment I sent him back to the Kremlin, that was the cue.

And all for what? To mock me? To pretend they cared? My sister could have died, and these men wouldn't have shed a single tear.

It seemed an eternity before the last flower petal was swept out the door and the doctors were left alone to tend to my sister. They attached all assortments of wires and tubes, telling me it could be weeks before she woke up, that even as a nation she may not survive.

I was so scared, I pulled out an old icon I had hidden in my room and prayed for her to live. I blubbered pathetically to that cracked picture of Mary, apologizing for murdering the Tsar and his family, for burning down churches, for renouncing God, for slaughtering so many people in the name of Communism… Had Lenin seen me do this, I thought smiling through my tears, he would have a fit.

First thing the next morning, I left for the Kremlin. I did exactly as promised: I told Stalin of the horrors I had seen, demanded that food be distributed across the countryside, or that at least we accept foreign aid.

The entire time he listened, unmoved behind his massive desk, pipe fumes swirling around his face. When at last I had finished, he had one question for me.

'Comrade Braginsky. In the current state of international affairs, how does the world measure success? Take… the British Empire, for example. How did they become so powerful? Was it… propagating the happiness of peasants?'

I did not answer.

'What about your friend, America?' he added, knowing the suggestion would annoy me. 'How did such a young country become self-sustainable? By making the people… _happy?'_

He leaned over the desk to cut straight through me with those black eyes. 'Nyet. The American elite exploited a workforce of beaten, battered and poor European immigrants, to do what? To _industrialize._ You fought on the front lines of the Great War, Comrade Braginsky. So please, tell me, what use is a happy, bloated peasant against machine gun fire?'

'You speak as if one machine gun is worth hundreds of innocent lives,' I said, my voice trembling with anger.

'Let me put it this way. Say we keep the grain in the countryside—let those peasants hoard it all, in their barns and houses and under the mattresses. Then where does that leave the workers?

'Your people—the people you _actually_ represent—work two, sometimes three shifts in a row. They and their children need food to grow our economy and meet quotas which _you_ agreed to, Comrade Braginsky. You say there are mothers begging for their children in Kharkiv—what about the mothers of Moscow? You would rather see that here, then?'

It was another personal attack—Stalin knew I was partial to Moscow.

'This isn't some noble sacrifice,' I growled through clenched teeth. 'She's my _sister.'_

'We've all made sacrifices for the Revolution, Braginsky. Parents, siblings, distant relatives… the only difference is that ours can die.' Stalin leaned back in his chair and smirked through the smoke. 'Maybe now you can consider yourself a _true_ Revolutionary hero.'

The only thing I gained from that meeting was a police escort to Kazakhstan. Then at least I didn't have to carry the poor girl back in a suitcase.

When I returned home from the Kremlin, I began to laugh—a cold, detached cackle that rose from my chest. Soon I was bent over in the foyer, clutching my stomach and guffawing like a madman. Oh, how _cruel_ history was! Was my current situation any different than how life had been under the tsars?

'Oh, Katya,' I sighed, swaying into her room with a bottle of vodka brandished in one hand. 'Nothing has changed! You hear that, sestra? _Nothing!'_

But of course she couldn't hear, because she was dead.

And I proceeded to drink myself away, thinking how many lives might improve if I passed out on the floor of her bedroom and never woke up. But I did wake up—albeit with a pounding headache, sweat sticking to my wrinkled uniform, and a missed train to Akmolinsk. The picture of a pathetic nation, who couldn't even keep his own damn family alive.

Katya didn't wake up until nearly a month after I brought Kazakhstan to Moscow.

I had been reciting poetry to her every night, as if somehow that would cure her. But one evening I stopped in the middle of Pushkin's _Tempest_ to stare at her colorless, sunken face.

What am I doing, I thought. How is this helping? She was dead, and by taking her from her people I had choked out the last chance for her survival. But then a dry, husky voice grated through the air, so soft I barely heard it:

' _V…Van… ya?'_

My breath clogged in my throat; I commanded myself not to overwhelm her. 'Yes,' I breathed, kneeling by her bedside and taking cold, skeletal hands in mine. 'Yes, it's me.'

Wrinkled eyelids flickered, and I held my breath as they slowly broke open. The pale blue irises looking up at the ceiling were lost, dull, lifeless… but they were the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

' _Vanya,'_ she croaked again, and then: ' _I'm… hungry.'_

And I burst into tears.

Katya's recovery was slow. The doctors gave me strict instructions on how to feed her—ironically in many cases, how _not_ to feed her—and eventually she gained enough strength to sit up in bed. A week later, we tried walking. I supported her waist while she clutched my coat with shaking hands and teetered through the hall. We passed Kazakhstan's room, and for a moment my sister returned to her old self, scolding me:

'There's another nation here? Vanya, you've been wasting all of your time with me when you should be helping _her!'_

It was just as the old man had said—Katya has a kind, compassionate heart. She insisted they share a room… and as if by some magic spell, Kazakhstan woke up the next morning.

I didn't know how to act around sestra. Did she hate me, for what I had done to her people? How much of the carnage had she witnessed before she finally collapsed? Did the police raid her house before, or after?

But she carefully avoided the subject, only asking me how she came to be in Moscow. I told the story of how I found her, emphasizing the shrine and how her people had lavished such love on their nation. She listened with a face of stone—to which the color had returned, if only slightly, and now the hollows in her cheeks weren't _quite_ so pronounced—and didn't say a word.

I'm sure Katya felt confused. I was her brother, and so she loved me… but I had failed to protect her from this awful famine. I could see it in her countenance—a bitterness boiling just under the surface, hidden beneath soft smiles and nervous laughter.

Shortly after Kazakhstan gained enough strength to walk, the three of us shared our first family dinner. I did the cooking, shooing my sister away when she followed the scent of shi into the kitchen. I used less cabbage than usual, keeping the broth thin so the girls could eat it. I toasted to a short winter—it was a safe bet, considering the circumstances—and tried to start a friendly conversation about the weather.

There was a clatter as Kazakhstan set down her spoon.

'Are you kidding me? Katyusha, don't tell me you've been putting up with this bullshit.'

Katya and I gaped at the woman glaring at us from across the table. At last my sister let out a nervous laugh,

'What are you talking about—'

'You actually _let_ him carry on like this? Ignoring the problem, smiling as if everything is 'just fine,' kissing your wrinkled ass before going off to do Stalin's dirty work? _He's_ the reason you're here, he almost _killed_ you, Katyusha!'

Katya's hands trembled, the spoon clinking against her bowl. 'I know that—'

'You think he didn't have a chance to make a change? You think he doesn't have a chance, every single day he slinks off to whore himself to these Communist bastards? Nobody is stopping him, Katyusha, he is choosing to keep things the way they are, he is _choosing_ to let your people— _our_ people starve!'

'I _know_ that!'

Katya's voice had risen to a sharp tone, her chair scraping against the floor as she stood up. She turned towards me, and in a horrid moment of déjà vu, I saw the same hatred burning in her eyes as the beggar at the train station.

'I don't ask him to make changes,' she said, words dripping with cold resentment. 'Because I know that if he hasn't done it yet, he won't do it now.'

I felt a chill, like ice settle in my stomach.

Kazakhstan let out a scoff, rising from her own chair and snatching a slice of bread from the table. 'Fine, keep playing your sick game of house. But first thing tomorrow morning, I'm leaving for my _own_ people. And the next time I collapse, don't bother coming to 'save' me unless you _actually_ plan on making a change.'

Then she stalked away, long dark braids swinging as she went.

The silence was thick.

At last I worked up the courage to speak: 'Katya—'

' _Don't,'_ she snapped, and my jaw clicked shut. Her voice wavered—a masked calm over quiet hatred. 'Your government will do its best to erase my suffering from the pages of history… and maybe you'll even play along with the game.' She shot me a look that froze me to my chair as she added,

'But I will _never_ forget.'

Then she calmly took her seat, asked me to pass the bread, and we continued eating dinner in a tense silence.

I had intended to fulfill my promise and return Katya to her people… but only once the famine ended.

It didn't.

The extravagant New Years' firework display of '33 in Red Square was a harsh contrast to the hour I spent rubbing my sister's bony back, as she clutched my night clothes and wailed—a primitive, torturous sound like the ones I'd heard at the train stops. Almost a year had passed, and yet the famines still took a toll on Katya. Her hair was brittle, her smiles forced. She could now eat normally, but she would always stare at her empty plate with haunted, hungry eyes.

After much pestering of the Polish government, I finally got permission to write Natasha. A week later, I received her… _lengthy_ reply.

'Vanya?' Katya called, walking into my office with a stack of envelopes.

I looked up, noting that she was no longer disturbing to look at. The biggest improvement was in her face—cheeks filled out, the deep wrinkles in her brow smoothed over so that she regained her youthful appearance.

'Da, what is it,' I said, turning my attention back to my paperwork.

'There's something here… for you.'

'What?'

She dropped a manila package onto my desk with a _whump_ that sent my pens clattering. My sister quirked an eyebrow in a rare moment of humor.

'Is Felya writing you a novel?'

Natasha's letter was no less than _fifteen_ pages long, an extensive rant on what a nightmare her life had become cohabiting with that 'ostentatious brat.' At first I read it with amusement, but my smile quickly faded as I realized the seriousness of Natasha's situation.

Despite their governments' agreement, Poland was not giving her three meals a day. It had become commonplace, she wrote, for Poland to order her to set the table and prepare a meal, only to be forced to sit and _watch him eat_ before he announced that dinner was over, 'clean up this shit.'

Some days he would leave for 'business trips'—parties, more like, she added with disgust—for up to a week, locking her in the house without a scrap of food. He forced her to make Polish dishes, screaming and hitting her when she got the recipes wrong, yet he gave her no instructions. She was reduced to doing petty housework, with which Poland would always find some flaw, happily announcing that her dinner was revoked.

'He tortures me with food,' she wrote, 'Taking advantage of my peoples' starvation to make me bow to his sadistic whims.'

According to Natasha, Poland had been driven mad by the Polish-Lithuanian War, reduced to an emotionally unstable drunk who incessantly 'bitched' about Litva's refusal to marry him. He held a terrible grudge over Natasha for her brief marriage to Litva, which, she added fervently, was _purely_ political and certainly not her fault. I'll never forget her last sentence:

'Please, brother, I am forbidden from communicating with my Communist government, you are the only one who can get me out of this hell.'

I was so enraged at Natasha's letter, it was all I could do to keep myself from ripping it to shreds. I immediately called Poland, demanding that he send her back to the USSR. His response was to sneer in English,

'And what are _you_ going to do with her, Russia? _Feed_ her? When your fucked-up country starts exporting grain instead of importing it, we can have this conversation.'

He ended the call with a rude _click_.

I ripped the phone from the wall and smashed it to the ground, childishly imagining it to be Poland's head. I had to use a telegram for a month after that—production wasn't catered to demand, and there was a waiting list for telephones.

For two years, I felt trapped and helpless. One of my sisters was starving, the other being abused by a foreign power. By sabotaging my family, Stalin had attacked the very _core_ of my value system—and without God and without Communism, it was the only value system I had left.

January 26th of 1934 marked the first day of the 17th Congress of the All-Union Communist Party. Nearly two thousand delegates from all across the Soviet Union gathered in a cavernous conference hall. Over the next two weeks, the delegates would hold votes, discuss the success of the previous Five-Year Plan, and lay out the goals for the next one.

All of the Soviet republics (with the exception of Natasha) had flown in from Central Asia and the Caucasus, and the ten of us sat in the first row. Katya sat on my right, Kazakhstan on my left. I could sense their resentment as the nation's successes were announced to thunderous applause—arms tightening across their chests, glaring at the bureaucrats in their velvet-lined chairs on the stage.

Eventually the session called for a break, and the hall filled with the bustle of men and women rising from their chairs. The Politburo members and delegates filed down the steps, smiling and shaking hands with those waiting on the floor. As I was easily the tallest person in the room, I spotted a head of pepper grey hair heading towards our row.

I put an arm around Katya's shoulder. 'He's coming,' I whispered, and she tensed.

The crowd gave Stalin a wide berth, watching us with curious eyes as he approached.

'Comrades!' he greeted, and Kazakhstan whipped around from another conversation so violently, her braids slapped my uniform.

My arm tightened around Katya's shoulder as he extended a hand to her. She shook it, then gasped sharply when he lifted her knuckles to his lips. Kazakhstan's face twisted with indignation, but before she could say anything I ground my heel into the toe of her boot.

'I salute you, Comrades,' Stalin said, still smiling. 'Thanks to your contributions, the Soviet Union is now a great industrial power. You are truly heroes.'

Kazakhstan hissed something unintelligible in her own language, and I was grateful it was not related to Georgian.

'I look forward to surveying the grain distributions this spring,' he said, and without another word turned to face a rush of delegates shaking his hand and congratulating him on the Five-Year Plan's immense success.

Katya was shaking. I led her out of the great hall, ignoring shouts of 'Comrade Braginsky!' as I carved a path through the crowd. I pulled her into an alcove away from the throng of people spilling into the foyer for refreshments.

And my sister broke down into tears.

I pulled her close, feeling her hands ball around the fabric of my uniform as she buried her face into me, sobs muffled by my chest. I pressed my lips into her brittle hair, feeling helpless to comfort her.

At last she broke away and choked, 'I—I-I hate him…'

'Shh,' I whispered, glancing around to ensure nobody heard the treasonous confession.

"I—I hate him so much… because I'm _happy…'_

I pulled back, shocked. 'What?'

'Don't you see?' she cried in a cracked voice, placing a hand on my jaw and forcing me to look down into her red, puffy eyes. 'The Politburo just announced it, but Stalin confirmed it himself: The industrial goals were met! They don't need our grain anymore! He said _distributions,_ not collections—that means the famine will end! Oh, Vanya, thank _god!'_

And she wrapped her arms tight around my middle and pressed her face to my chest, and cried.

February 10th marked the last day of the Congress. I had invited the republics to my house for a celebration dinner, and we all stood outside the conference building as taxis pulled up to the curb. I was surveying the crowd when I reached into my pocket and felt a slip of paper. I pulled it out, and there, written in neat small handwriting, was a street address.

I foolishly looked around, as if expecting to find the person who had slipped this into my pocket. But in that packed conference hall, it could have been one in over two thousand people. I knew one thing for sure: This note was not from my government.

'Katya,' I said, and she turned away from laughing at a joke with Azerbaijan.

'Yes, brother?'

'Can you handle our guests on your own? There's something… I need to take care of.'

Her face fell as she sensed my seriousness. 'What is it?'

I closed the piece of paper in a fist. 'I'm not sure. But if I don't return by midnight, contact the police.'

I took a trolleybus to the center of town and then walked, making sure I was not followed. I knew the city's layout by heart, but the streets let to a much less-traveled part of Moscow. Towering apartment buildings threw dark shadows across the alleyways, and my boots scuffed on wet cobblestone. I opened a chipped green door and climbed a flight of narrow cement stairs to an apartment that matched the number on the paper.

The door opened before I could knock, and I was ushered in by a young woman with a brown ponytail and glasses. She glanced down the stairs to make sure I was alone, then pulled the door shut behind me.

'Zdrastvuytie, Ivan Zimavich,' she greeted, and motioned for me to have a seat at the small dining table by the kitchen.

The tiny apartment was bare, save for a pile of dirty dishes in the sink and newspaper clippings pinned to the wall. A matching tea set had already been set out, with a steaming pot and a near-empty bowl of sugar. There was a short exchange: 'Black, or…?' 'Yes, that's fine,' before she took a seat in front of me.

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. 'I apologize; I can't give you my name. But I work as a secretary at the Supreme Soviet of Belarus.'

Why would the Belarusian government have a need to meet me in secret?

'From what our informers have gathered, Ivan Zimavich, you have been unaware of the fact that Natalia Ivanovna was invited to the All-Union Congress.'

I frowned. 'Nobody told me this.'

She picked up a document with Soviet letterhead and slid it across the table.

'On the 1st of January, the Polish government received a request from the Soviet government to deliver the nation representative of Belarus to Minsk. There, the Polish delegates would relinquish custody of Natalia Ivanovna back to the Supreme Soviet of Belarus. According to this letter, food distributions would be granted across the countryside, and so there was no longer a need for Natalia Ivanovna to live in Warsaw. They wanted the transfer to occur in time for the conference.'

Something wasn’t right—my government had told the Belarusians the famine would be put to an end, long before they ever gave me such information. Not to mention my sister had been nowhere to be found at the conference.

'How did the Poles reply?' I asked, eyeing Stalin's signature at the bottom of the letter.

'They offered a transfer date—Natalia Ivanovna was to return to Minsk on January 5th.' The girl's face fell into a look of anguish, and it struck me that I had seen the same look on the Ukrainians' faces when they spoke of Katya.

'It was a trap. OGPU agents had been stationed in nearby rooms. They rushed in from all directions, pointing their guns at all of us, and arrested Natalia Ivanovna on charges of colluding with the Polish government.'

My hand fell onto the table with the rattle of teacups.

'Ivan Zimavich…' she continued, trembling. 'How well do you know your sister?'

I grit my teeth, forcing myself to listen to this girl and not flip the table in my rage. 'We are close.'

Her even gaze met me through the lenses of her glasses. 'Has she told you about her private police force?'

I blinked. Natasha had founded a private agency? And she didn't _tell_ me?

'After the Soviet government forced Natalia Ivanovna to marry the nation representative of Lithuania in 1919, she decided she could no longer trust the powers surrounding her borders. She hand-picked a group of loyal Belarusian soldiers and agents to serve her directly in an intelligence chain that would exist within the Soviet government and secret police. Our duties were simple: To protect her, at all costs, even at the expense of our own lives. To be loyal to her, even if the Polish and Soviet governments were not.

'Ideally the agency would have protected Natalia Ivanovna from the arrest. But we would have exposed ourselves to the OGPU, and would be no use to her dead. During the following weeks, our spies tracked down her whereabouts. We would have told you right away, but it was too dangerous to contact you until the conference was over.'

'Where is she,' I growled, dreading the answer.

The girl's shoulders fell with a short sigh. Her glasses glinted in the kitchen light as she looked up and said,

'Your sister has been deported to a labor camp in Kolyma.'

* * *

HISTORY NOTES

**Kazakh Famine**

During the famines, the Kazakh SSR was hit the hardest percentage-wise, due to its smaller population. The famines started earlier, in 1930, and an estimated 1.5 to 2 million people died—42% of the republic's population.

**Holodomor Genocide Question**

Although 33 countries recognize the Holodomor as genocide, Russia is not one of them. This is due to different interpretations of the motive behind the famine’s creation. Some historians think it was a deliberate attempt to stamp out any remnant of Ukrainian nationalism, as Ukraine had been one of the regions to try and break away from the Russian Empire during the Civil War period. Others say it was a byproduct of a widespread collectivization policy that affected all parts of the USSR, and didn’t specifically target ethnic Ukrainians. The famine was so thoroughly covered up that anyone attempting to report it within the USSR was arrested or killed, and the Soviet government denied word spread by foreign press. Any discussion of the famine was banned in the USSR until the 1980’s. Today, the Holodomor remains one of the many tension points in Ukrainian-Russian relations.

**Belarus after WWI**

After the Germans withdrew from Belarusian territory in 1918, Belarus found itself in the crossfire between the warring Poles, Lithuanians, Soviets, and Belarusian nationalists. After advancing Soviet forces took control, they feared the state was too weak and so united it with Soviet Lithuania to form the Lithuanian-Byelorussian SSR. Many Belorussians were opposed to this, as they felt it was an annexation by Lithuania. However the ‘marriage’ was to be short-lived, as Polish forces captured Minsk five months later. The Poles and Soviets continued to fight for territory until the Treaty of Riga was signed in March of 1921, splitting Belarus in half between Poland and the USSR. West Belarus, as the Polish half was called, experienced intense Polonization. 30,000 Polish families were settled in Belarusian territory, Orthodox churches were forced to become Catholic, the use of their language was discouraged, and Belarusian schools were shut down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> During Soviet times, Russian speakers used the phrase "na Ukrainyeh" to say "in Ukraine." "Na" in Russian is a preposition which means in an open space, or region. It is not used with independent countries. Today, politically correct Russian speakers will say "v Ukrainyeh" which indicates Ukraine's status as a country and not just a region of a larger nation. The best way to translate this into English is to say "the Ukraine," the way you might refer to a region of a country, instead of just "Ukraine" as the country's name.  
> Shi: this is a traditional Russian soup which basically consists of broth and boiled cabbage.
> 
> For the first section, I used descriptions from "The Last Grain Collections," a journal entry from Stalin supporter, Lev Kopelev about the conditions in Ukraine. The funeral scene idea came straight from Armando Iannicci's comedy film, "The Death of Stalin." Ivan's story is also influenced by Pervy Kanal's TV series, "Trotsky" on Netflix. The series does a brilliant job of portraying the moral ambiguity of the events surrounding the Revolution, as well as an insight to how figures like Lenin, Trotsky, and Stalin manipulated the Russian people (and each other)
> 
> It should be noted, that Natalia's "private police force" is entirely fictional. However this will play a historically significant role in the next chapter.
> 
> Thanks for reading, and please leave a comment!


	27. Большой Террор — The Great Terror

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even though there were 15 republics in the USSR, only seven of these are Hetalia canon. That means there are eight more members of Russia's "family" which never appear in the comic strips or the show.
> 
> These countries come from two regions. The first is Central Asia, which includes Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan, Turkmenistan (Rahim,) and Uzbekistan (Naim.) Go due West from there, cross the Caspian Sea, and you'll hit the Caucasus. This group consists of Armenia, Azerbaijan (Zahra,) and Georgia (Levan.)
> 
> I've already introduced Kazakhstan, but this chapter is where we get to meet everyone else… and their own brand of Hetalia nonsense.

When I returned home, I slammed the door so hard it shook the windows.

Uzbekistan was crossing the foyer with a plate of appetizers, but jumped when he saw me. 'Oh, Russia! I've been meaning to ask you about some _arrests_ that have been going on? It's not that I'm _ungrateful_ or _complaining_ , but—Russia? Hey, where are you going!?'

I ignored him and continued straight to the kitchen. I was hit with the tantalizing scent of sashlik and borscht, before hearing the sizzle of meat and chopping of vegetables when I stepped through the door. Georgia and Katya both wore aprons, hard at work at the stove while Kazakhstan carried steaming serving plates to the breakfast table.

Kyrgyzstan stood bent over, his entire head in the refrigerator. 'You _sure_ there isn't any horse meat in here?'

Georgia rounded on him, oven mitts on his hips. 'Can someone ban him from the kitchen, already?'

I noticed he wore one of his embroidered aprons, although I couldn't read the foreign curlicue script. Armenia had once told me they usually involved vulgar food metaphors.

Georgia spotted me by the door. 'Oh Russia, you're back. Tell this— _yak herder_ his presence is interfering with my culinary genius.'

' _Vanya!'_ Katya cried, dropping a ladle into the pot of borscht. She rushed towards me, reaching up with warm hands to touch my face. 'Oh my god, I was so worried—' her voice stuck in her throat as she registered my expression.

An intense argument at the breakfast table between Armenia and Azerbaijan was broken when the latter glanced up to meet me with a striking golden gaze.

'Russia?' she said, scarlet lips parting in a frown. 'What's wrong?'

Even Kyrgyzstan had pulled his head out of the refrigerator, and I felt the burn of six pairs of eyes. My throat closed up and a white noise rose in the back of my head. I placed a hand on Katya's shoulder, a silent plea for help. Her eyes widened with mounting panic as she breathed my name,

'Vanya—'

Just then Uzbekistan strode through the door. 'You know, in most countries it's _rude_ to ignore people—' his voice cut off as he noticed the kitchen had grown quiet. 'Did I miss something?'

'Naim, go get the others.' Kazakhstan ordered, never taking her eyes off me.

'Why?'

' _Now,'_ she growled, and Uzbekistan muttered a complaint in his own language before leaving the room.

I could see tears building in the corner of Katya's eyes, and that only made me feel worse.

'Russia, you should sit down. You two, up,' Kazakhstan snapped, and Armenia and Azerbaijan leapt out of their seats. I could do little to resist as Katya ushered me to the table, sitting down across from me as she took my hand. I shielded my eyes, embarrassed my family was seeing me like this.

Seconds later I heard the jingle of jewelry as Tajikistan walked in with her brothers. The only other sound was the sizzle of meat on the stove.

When I spoke, my voice was thick and cracked: 'Natasha has been arrested.'

Gasps went up around the room; Katya's hand tightened around mine.

'Where is she?' Azerbaijan said.

I forced myself to look my sister in the eye. 'Kolyma.'

This time the response was vocal; mutters of 'oh shit' and 'Jesus' rippled through the room in various languages.

I squeezed Katya's hand. 'I'm going to rescue her. I want all of you to stay here until I get back—'

'What!?'

'Here? In _Moscow?'_

'Without a mountain vie— _ow!'_

Kyrgyzstan's cry of dismay broke with a grunt as Uzbekistan elbowed him in the ribs.

I sent a stern look around the room. 'The OGPU deliberately set up a trap to arrest Natasha—there's no telling who's next on the list. The nine of you will be safer if you're barricaded here. I'll show you where I keep my firearms—'

'Whoa, whoa, whoa,' Georgia cut in, shaking a skewer at me. 'You're telling me I'll be trapped with these idiots the _entire time_ you're gone?'

Armenia folded his arms. 'It's almost a two weeks' trip to the East Pacific. Even if the police don't intervene, you could be gone for up to a month. And that's not even accounting for possible snowstorms.'

The kitchen filled with disapproving mutters:

'A _month?'_

'What are we going to eat?'

'Not _your_ food, I hope.'

'Oh shut up, Levan.'

' _Enough,'_ I growled, raising my voice above the din. 'The OGPU keeps a sharp watch on this place; they know exactly who goes in and out. If any of you makes the misguided decision to leave the mansion perimeter, I'll have you arrested and I will _not_ be making the trip to save you. Do I make myself clear?'

The voices fell to a hush.

'Can we shoot to kill?'

Everyone jumped and turned to face Turkmenistan, who had been leaning against the wall by the kitchen window. His gaze met me through long dark bangs.

' _Rahim!'_ Tajikistan gasped with the jingle of bracelets. 'You can't just ask that!'

'He said he'd give us firearms. That means we're going to be attacked. So I ask again: Can we shoot to kill?'

Each of us understood the gravity of the situation: Under normal circumstances, any nation killing another's citizen could be considered an act of war. Of course we were all united politically, but the fact remained that OGPU agents stationed in Moscow were most likely to be my people.

I looked at Katya. Tears streamed down her face, but she hadn't made a sound the entire time.

'Da,' I said. 'If the situation demands it.'

'What does that mean?' Uzbekistan pressed, but I had already risen from my chair and put an arm around Katya.

'I trust you to make that call.' I lead her to the doorway, then paused and turned to face my family. My gaze traveled across the room to look each of them in the eye. 'I trust you to protect each other.'

The moment we stepped into the hallway, Katya gripped the lapels of my uniform and pulled me down to give me a look of raw fear I hadn't seen in centuries. 'Come back,' she whispered. 'No matter what they do to you— _promise_ _me_ you'll come back.'

'Don't worry,' I said. 'If any of those bastards try to lay a finger on me or Natasha, I will kill them.'

And I saw in the way that her body stilled, and her eyes flickered with a different kind of fear, that she knew I spoke the truth.

Twelve days on the Trans-Siberian Railroad would get me from Moscow to Khabarovsk, and from there I would take a smaller train to the port of Vanino. Then I would have to board a prison ship across the frozen Sea of Okhotsk to arrive at the Magadan trading post.

Train tracks clacked through my subconscious like a broken record. The liquid in my vodka bottle swayed from side to side, burnt-out cigarette butts rolled in the ashtray. The vast expanse of my land sped past my compartment window—first the black and white palaces of frosted birch trees, then the snow-streaked spires of the Urals rising from the earth like frozen gray waves. I watched the sun climb over glittering golden snow, the flash of turquoise cracks snaking through Lake Baikal. Foxes padded through the snow; it glowed violet and then indigo while the twisting dust of the Milky Way arced across the tundra sky.

I was glued to that compartment window, because I was trying so hard to forget where I was going. But the closer I got, the harder it became to push that part of me away.

My dreams twisted into nightmares flickering with visions from kulaks I myself had sent to death. The aching strain of labor and freezing chill cut me to my bone. I asked for more blankets and lay curled in my compartment, my teeth clattering so loudly I was sure the other passengers could hear it.

Soon the cold wasn't only in my imagination, as I huddled around a glowing coal stove in the officers' quarters of a prison ship. With so many of my people below deck, I felt their fear claw into me, like a writhing pit of panic. I wondered if Stalin had brought my sister here, not to keep her away from me, but to force me to take the same journey so many of my people had—and _willingly,_ oh what cruel irony.

One of the officers turned the radio to a station playing Soviet anthems praising a glorious motherland and our 'Dear' Stalin—and in that moment, I wanted to hurl the blasphemous thing into the churning ice below.

After borrowing a supply truck in Magadan and fighting the ice-slicked roads for hours, at last I arrived at the camp—a dull collection of grey barracks, barbed wire fence and watchtowers tucked in the vast expanse of the tundra.

A chill shot down my spine; it was the first time I had seen one in person.

Snow crunched beneath the tires as I pulled to a stop; I wrenched the door open against the wind, tucking my chin beneath my scarf and pulling my ushanka tight over my ears. Nothing seemed to work; Winter sunk his teeth into my flesh with maddened glee. I heard dogs barking long before I reached the gate; I caught sight of several guards on patrol, stopping to look my direction while their tethered beasts lunged and snapped at the air.

The gate was topped with a red star coated in a thick layer of ice and snow, and I could barely make out the bold words arching across the top:

_LABOR IN THE USSR IS A MATTER OF HONOR, GLORY, VALOR, AND HEROISM_

The gatehouse guards snapped into a salute. 'Dobri den', tavareesh!'

I tore my gaze from the sign and returned the gesture, shouting over the wind: 'Dobri den', tovarishi! I've come with prisoner release forms!"

A confused shared glance—releases were few and far between. But they gave sharp nods and one led me through the gate and to an administrative building. The camp seemed quiet—of course, I realized, the prisoners were out working. They would return at nightfall, a slow-moving line of lost souls, weary and dragging their feet from a day of agonizing work… and my sister would be one of them.

The administrative building held the outwards appearance of a barrack, but the interior was a scratched cement hallway lined with office doors. The guard led me into a room packed with filing cabinets, the air choked with the thick scent of cigarette smoke and vodka.

Two young women clacked away at typewriters, their gaunt appearances and tattered clothes giving away their status as prisoners—albeit very lucky ones. Or not so lucky, I realized, depending on the price they paid to get this job. Behind the desk sat a greasy man; the obvious cause of the stench. I glanced to the small number stitched to his coat—also a prisoner.

'Popov!' the guard snapped, and the bookkeeper looked up from scribbling on a piece of paper. 'We've got zek release forms, express orders from Comrade…'

'Braginsky,' I filled in, too exhausted to care if they knew my real name. Just then I locked eyes with a black and white portrait of Stalin hanging on the wall. I shuddered and turned my attention back to the man at the desk.

'Release forms?' he repeated, face scrunching in skepticism. He gave me a look I had seen peasants regard nobility with—but of course, I was a Muscovite descended from on high, with my spotless uniform and hand knit woolen scarf. I noticed a sudden absence of typing—even the two young women had paused in their work to stare at me.

'There's been a mistake,' I explained. 'I work with Comrade Stalin; he pardoned the prisoner himself.'

I could feel the air being sucked out of the room; even the guard tensed at that name. The bookkeeper blinked, then let out a bark of humorless laughter.

'Old Whiskers!' he roared. 'HA! I wasn't born yesterday, you know—'

'Neither was I. This is not a joke, _citizen.'_

The lack of 'comrade' was a direct jab at his prisoner status; as enemies of the state they were forbidden from using the term. The man seemed mildly unnerved, and the clacking resumed as the two women hurried to not draw attention to themselves.

'Lemme see the documents,' he grumbled, holding out an ink-stained hand. I handed him the papers I'd stolen from the Kremlin—genuine release forms, with typed info on Natasha and a forged signature from Stalin. The bookkeeper narrowed his eyes.

'Natalia Ivanovna Arlovskaya… K 356. Well I'll be damned, you know that tramp, don'tcha Trukhin?'

A smirk crossed the guard's face. 'Not as much as I would like to. I'll break that bitch one of these days, maybe get her to scrub the gatehouse floor for me—'

'That _bitch_ just so happens to be my sister,' I ground through clenched teeth, fingers twitching for my pistol. The typing stopped again, then abruptly started full speed when the guard shot the two girls a glare.

'She's also an enemy of the people,' the bookkeeper muttered, holding a second document to the light. 'Arrested in Minsk on charges of counterrevolutionary activity, tortured until confession. Sentence: 25 years of hard labor.'

My gut wrenched upon hearing those words; I had known it was a possibility Natasha could have been tortured, but I didn't want to believe it. And 25 _years…_

The man slapped the documents on the desk, seemingly pleased with his findings. 'Sorry Braginsky—you may be unfamiliar with how things work around here, but zeks in Kolyma are convicted traitors. Even if one was released, it would be at least after a third of their sentence. K 356 got here a _month_ ago.'

I saw the guard's posture change out of the corner of my eye; his hand brushed over the holster of his pistol.

'The documents are real,' I snarled, resisting the urge to throw this petulant man out the window.

'Oh, they're real, alright. Snagged from the briefcase of some intelligence minister, I'd wager. And if you work with Whiskers, you'd be able to forge the signature. Come on, Braginsky. Your _sister?'_ He flicked out a cigarette and cupped a hand to light it. 'Just accept that she got involved in some shit and move on. No point in sacrificing your rank for a traitor like her. Besides, Trukhin here will keep her plenty company—'

He never got to finish that sentence, because I flung out my pistol and shot him straight through the head.

The secretaries screamed.

The guard drew his firearm, but before he had a chance to shoot I rammed him against the wall, one hand closing around his throat and the other twisting the pistol out of his grip. My voice lowered to a guttural snarl,

'I choked out the remnants of my own royal bloodline with my bare hands, Comrade; don't you _dare_ think that your life or any of your friends' here is a _smear_ on my ledger. Now, I am here to take my sister home. I can either do that with or without slaughtering you all like the fat pigs you are.'

The guard's face turned red as he kicked and pulled uselessly at my gloves. 'You—have to ch'ck—th' squads,' he gasped. 'I-I don't know—wh'ch one she'z— _in!'_

Footsteps rang in the hall, and the door flew open as several guards burst through, weapons drawn. 'Shit,' I heard someone say; they must have noticed the blood splattered onto the file cabinets.

The camp guards were not the well-trained OGPU agents of Moscow—they were cogs in the machine scraped from the gutters of the Soviet Union, seen as 'too dangerous' to work on the front lines. And so they were dumped here, in the blistering cold assigned with the task of beating and shooting prisoners to prevent escapes… because, if they allowed such a thing, their own names would be replaced with a letter and three-digit number.

These men were afraid of me, and rightly so.

'I've come with release forms for Natalia Ivanovna, signed and approved by Comrade Stalin himself. _Popov_ there didn't seem convinced the documents were genuine.' I smiled at the guards. 'Would anyone else like to object?'

Silence, save for the quiet struggles of Trukhin suffocating in my grip.

'Good. Now, which one of you is going to guide me to the worksite?'

A nervous shared glance, then a guard said, 'We can't authorize that, Comrade, you'll have to wait until the day's shift is over—'

'How nice, a volunteer!'

I dropped Trukhin onto the floor, a _thump_ resonating through the wood as he sputtered with wheezing coughs. I swiped the documents off the desk, squinting through the bloodstain to read a roughly scrawled squad number: _84th._ The second guard opened his mouth to protest, but with a few strides I crossed the distance between us and hooked my finger around the nape of his uniform; it was all the leverage I needed to drag him stumbling out of the room.

The guard was smart enough not to argue as we fought the wind through the gate and to the truck. 'The 84th,' I said, slamming the door shut and starting the ignition.

He pointed me directions until I could see the grey silhouettes of workers swinging pickaxes in the silver light. Pacing the line of prisoners were the ever-present guards, dogs salivating on their leashes as they padded through the snow. I pulled the car to a stop, the dogs froze and looked up.

'Now go and tell your friends to give _her_ back,' I ordered, shoving the release forms into the guard's shaking hands.

'Comrade, please… I-I was taking a break in the office when we heard the gunshot and I left my gloves—'

I rolled my eyes and pulled an extra pair from my coat pocket, tossing them onto his lap. These men could strip, search, and beat weary prisoners, yet even the prospect of exposing their own hands to the elements was enough to leave a man shaking.

'Thank you, Comrade—'

'I brought those in case my first pair got stained with blood,' I snapped. 'Now get out of my truck.'

The guard wrenched the door open so fast, he nearly fell off his seat. I sighed and stepped out into the snow, shielding my face as I watched the grey silhouette of the guard speaking with another man in uniform. The piece of paper whipped violently as they pointed at me, then the second guard turned to the line of prisoners. A shout echoed over the wind:

'K 356!'

There was some movement among the prisoners; they were all women I realized. Few dared to look up from their work; being so close to them I could feel the ache in their bones and the gnawing hunger in their stomachs. So tight was the connection, I even felt the wave of silent rage as a thin figure staggered forward through the snow. Most of these women had been slaving for years under false charges, and here was my sister getting pulled out after a month.

As Natasha neared, my breath caught in my throat. She wore a prisoner's uniform, tattered woolen jacket and valenki crusted with snow, rags tied around her face so only her eyes remained uncovered. Huge white numbers were painted onto her jacket and ushanka, stripping her of any dignity and replacing her name with a number: K 356.

As she neared, I realized she was limping, struggling to even make the short trip through the deep snow. Her skin shone red from the cold, eyelashes coated with frost and strands of hair stuck to her sweating brow. A black eye had yet to heal; a sign her body was too weak to repair itself.

My beautiful little sister… now an enemy of the people.

It wasn't until she was standing in front of me that Natasha looked up from the ground. Her entire body shuddered, a desperate cry tore through the wind; she staggered through the snow to collide into me as she broke into muffled sobs. I bent down, pulling her close and catching a whiff of the rotting stench that clung to her uniform.

'Don't worry, sestra,' I whispered. 'I'm bringing you home.' I looked up to see the first guard making his way back to the truck. 'What the hell do you think you're doing!?' I barked.

'I'm going back to camp!' he shouted back. 'Today was my day off!'

'Not anymore. Give me back my gloves.'

_'Vanya, no…'_

I barely heard Natasha's plea as she pulled at my coat. I looked down on her in surprise.

'Sestra, wh—'

'He'll take another zek's mittens,' she rasped, voice muffled by the rags pulled across her mouth. 'They don't give us extras, it's all we have. Without them, we would lose our hands, and then we couldn't work…' Her eyes filled with despair. 'They shoot us if we can't work, Vanya. Just let him have the gloves.'

I was reminded of the fragility of life here—Gulag currency was measured in heat, food, and hours of sleep. Take those things away, and a man would go mad.

Without a word, I turned and led Natasha to the truck. I helped her up the step, her arms and legs trembling as she struggled to pull herself into the passenger seat. I slammed the door behind her, then took my own seat behind the wheel. And with the rattling of the engine and spray of snow, we drove away from the worksite.

Before they could shrink into white nothingness, I glanced out the window to see pickaxes swinging on the horizon. Four hundred prisoners in this camp, I thought. And thousands more like it dotted across the USSR. Those deported to Siberia—especially with over a twenty-year sentence—weren't likely to survive.

And what had they done to deserve such punishment? Most of the prisoners were just like my sister—as patriotic and hardworking citizens as could be. But they had been at the wrong place at the wrong time, or said the wrong thing, or even knew the wrong person… and so here they slaved, in the depths of Winter's domain… like a dull nightmare that lingered in my subconscious, a chill and a hunger that never quite left me. A constant reminder of just _who_ was in charge.

The drive to Magadan was silent, not out of tension but of a grim acceptance of the situation. Once I was sure the camp was far behind us, I handed Natasha new clothes and stepped out of the truck while she changed. When I climbed back into the driver's seat, I bit back a gasp.

My sister had lost an incredible amount of weight—the woolen sweater hung loosely on boney shoulders, knobs of her knees protruding from her pants. But what struck me were the bruises. Hardly a spot of her neckline was clear of the twisting black, blue, and green welts. She had removed the rags to reveal cracked, almost blue lips, her hair twisted in wires mashed from the fabric of her ushanka. Dark bags carved half-moons beneath her eyes, her lip swollen with dried blood.

'Do you have an extra scarf,' she said quietly, clasping her newly gloved fingers in her lap.

Without hesitation I unwound mine and handed it to her. She stared at the fabric in her hands. 'Vanya—'

'Put it on,' I said, starting the ignition. 'You need it more than me.'

Less than ten minutes after winding my scarf around her neck, Natasha fell asleep. And while I tried to keep my eyes on the road, every time I glanced to her frail, bruised body it was impossible to shut out the accusation hissing in my head:

_This is your fault._

In 1934, Magadan was so small it wasn't even considered a town. Rather, it was a transit center for the camp system, shuttling prisoners and supplies to the mining facilities in Kolyma.

Our first stop was a local market where I bought fish and bread, and I watched as Natasha closed her eyes and almost moaned with pleasure as she savored each slow bite. The shopkeeper gave me directions to a rundown inn for officers—a miserable shack where the heating barely managed to fight the chill whistling in from the windows, and the walls were so thin, they rattled with the cold laughter of military personnel.

But Natasha didn't complain about the grimy sink, or the creaky beds. Her first comment was one of dry humor: 'At least they don't have a mirror so I don't have to look at myself.'

I asked to tend to her wounds, but she only let me examine her arms and legs. Her wrists had been rubbed raw—ropes, I imagine—and her arm twisted in an odd way that suggested it had been broken and not set properly before it healed. I flinched when I saw cigarette burns dotting her neck, and wondered what else she could possibly want to hide from me. But I didn't want to invade her privacy—not after what she had been through.

'How is Katya,' she asked, breaking the understood silence.

'She is better,' I said, which didn't mean much. At last I could no longer bear it. 'Do you—hate me?' I said, my voice just a whisper. I had been too afraid to ever ask Katya the question, because I was certain of her answer.

Natasha looked confused. 'How could I? You saved me—'

'Nyet,' I insisted, shaking my head. 'I agreed to send you and sestra home to collectivize. If I had kept you with me, none of this would have happened—'

'You couldn't have known. You were following orders; we all were.'

'But I _should_ have known, Lenin himself warned that Stalin was too brutal, and we were already slaughtering thousands—'

'Vanya.'

She took my face in her hands—so thin, almost raw with blisters—at looked straight into my soul with those piercing sapphire eyes.

'You can never blame yourself for the decisions your leaders make. The only thing you can do, is keep working hard to protect your people. And in all the centuries we have lived together, I cannot remember a time when you were not doing exactly that.'

Warm tears dripped down my cheeks and into the crevices of her hands. 'But… I _haven't… '_

'Oh my god,' she breathed, and wrapped her arms around my neck to pull me into a tight embrace.

And I let myself fall apart, in that grimy inn buried in the blizzard of a god-forsaken prison trading post off the East Pacific. I clutched my little sister—with her half-starved body and bruises and frostbite—and we both just cried, because even after so many centuries, we still felt just as scared and helpless in the face of those who ruled us.

After boarding an empty prison ship back to Khabarovsk, I checked Natasha into a hospital. I scoured the city for better clothes for her to wear—I had only brought some of Katya's extra sweaters and pants. But consumer goods were in short supply, and Khabarovsk was no Moscow.

At last I was able to find a fashionable fur coat, which she could use to cover up the lost weight—and, thanks to my high rank, a clerk led me to the back of the store where she sold me a tube of pink lipstick. I felt silly, offering my sister that brown paper bag with nothing but a used coat and lipstick. But as she held it up to the light, her eyes widened in awe.

'I… haven't seen a color like this for weeks.'

'You should put it on,' I said, and Natasha flushed with embarrassment.

'Don't be ridiculous, brother, this is a hospital—'

'I didn't buy that lipstick just for you to stare at it,' I said with a smile, and nodded towards the bathroom door.

Natasha glanced around the room, as if searching for an excuse not to. But at last she gave in with a sigh, carefully sliding out of bed and refusing my help as she disappeared into the bathroom. It was at least fifteen minutes before she emerged, hair fixed into a silver braid, cuts on her face covered in bandages as she sent me a shy, glossy smile.

'Not much better, is it,' she sighed.

'Nyet,' I shook my head. 'You look beautiful.'

We stayed at the hospital for a few days, then boarded the train back to Moscow. We talked about everything—how I found Katya, what life was like for Natasha living with Poland, her arrest, the camp. Then the topics wandered to older, happier memories—funny stories of past Imperial dinners gone awry. I had managed to scrounge a copy of _Anna Karenina_ from Khabarovsk, and Natasha would sit with her knees pulled up to her chin, quietly turning the pages as the tundra sped by the window.

We weren't… _happy_. But that train became a sanctuary from the chaos of the outside world—a place where it was only me, and Natasha, and vodka shots and dry humor and playing cards.

All of that ended when we arrived in Moscow.

I spotted him near the station entrance long before we got there: Genrikh Grigoryevich Yagoda, deputy head of the secret police.

'Get behind me,' I growled to Natasha.

'No,' she said. 'I'm not afraid of these rats.'

My fingers curled around the trigger of my pistol as we approached the agents.

'Dobri den', Comrade Braginsky.'

Yagoda had dark arched eyebrows and a thin black mustache that went no further than his lips. Not once had I seen him smile.

'I don't care for your pleasantries,' I growled. 'I'm taking my sister home. You can get out of my way, or you can get shot.'

'We respect your wishes, Comrade Braginsky. However, Comrade Koshcheeva will be taking your sister home.'

Another group of agents approached, and I blinked at the tall woman striding across the station with them. How did they get Kazakhstan to leave the house? Or did she leave willingly? What about everyone else?

'Comrade Arlovksaya,' Yagoda said, almost in monotone. 'Please follow Comrade Koshcheeva to her car.'

'No,' I said, taking a step in front of my sister. 'She comes with me.'

'Russia,' Kazakhstan pressed. I locked gazes with her across the hall—we stood eye level—and saw a seriousness in them I knew I could trust. 'I'm taking her straight home. She'll be safe with me.'

'Where are the others—'

'They never left the mansion. They're safe.'

In the many centuries I had known Kazakhstan, not once had I seen her tell a lie.

Reluctantly I lowered my stance.

'Go,' I whispered to Natasha.

She gave me a nervous look, then walked to Kazakhstan's side. Kazakhstan sent a dark glare to her escorts—a warning not to follow—and muttered a soft, 'Let's go,' to Natasha. The two women turned around, and I could only track the pale glint of Natasha's hair for a few seconds before they were swallowed by the swarm of passengers.

I narrowed my eyes at Yagoda. 'Alright, you got my sister out of the way. Now what do you want.'

He sniffed with the twist of his mustache. 'Come with us.'

The agents led me to a car, and we left the station in a small caravan. I expected them to take me to the Kremlin, or even OGPU headquarters. But we kept driving, out of the city center and past the apartment projects. Soon we were in the countryside, and the car pulled onto a narrow road that wound into a forest.

'Here,' Yagoda ordered, and the driver pulled to a stop.

The slam of car doors rippled down the road as the other agents stepped out, and I looked up to see that we had parked behind a line of government vehicles. Near the front was a truck I recognized as one used to transport prisoners.

'Braginsky,' Yagoda barked, snapping my attention away from the truck. He jerked his head towards the trees, indicating for me to follow.

I hesitated, narrowing my eyes at the other agents who had already begun marching through the snow. Then I straightened my hat and stepped into the forest.

A maze of black tree trunks spread out in all directions like prison bars. The snow sucked any sound from the air, as if the very land held its breath. The only noise was the steady crunch of our boots.

After a few minutes, a low murmur of voices cut through the silence. I spotted a large group of dark figures in the distance, and as we neared I realized they stood in a clearing. But as I drew close enough to make out the details of their faces and clothing, my stomach dropped.

There, lined up in straight rows, were what looked like one hundred prisoners. Many of them bore injuries of torture, broken fingers and busted lips trembling as they shivered in the cold. Police agents stood guard around the clearing, rifles pointed at the group ready to shoot anyone who dared step out of line.

'What is this,' I growled, my eyes darting from one disfigured face to the next.

Yagoda came up beside me and pulled a cigarette box from his coat. 'I believe you are aware, Comrade Braginsky, that for the last twenty years Comrade Arlovskaya has been recruiting and training a private police agency?'

My blood ran cold. I had known something was off; I couldn't sense these prisoners like I could with those in the Gulag.

Yagoda flicked on a lighter and lit the cigarette with the hiss of curling smoke. 'This is of course, of the highest treason, and since their discovery two years ago Comrade Stalin made it top priority that we eliminate them. However with your sister living in Warsaw, the agency's movements became much harder to detect.'

Slowly, I began to understand, and my gut twisted with black dread.

'We decided the best way to draw them out would be to arrest Comrade Arlovskaya and allow them full movement as they tracked us. And—' he gestured to the shivering prisoners. 'It worked.' Yagoda plucked the cigarette from his lips and blew out a stream of smoke. 'Of course this isn't all of them, just the top operatives. The rest will be executed this weekend.'

'Comrade—'

'Every one of these prisoners has confessed to being guilty of treason. They were the strongest and most united threat existing within the USSR. And so, it's only logical that their executioner should be…' Dark eyes met me through twisting smoke. 'You.'

I knew there was nothing I could do to save Natasha's people. But I would not become their murderer. 'I won't do it. Get your disgusting men and shoot them yourselves.'

'I wouldn't be so quick to refuse, Comrade. My orders are clear—either you shoot them, or your sister will.'

'What if I shoot every one of you right now?' I growled through clenched teeth.

'You just returned from Siberia. Are you telling me you'd rather take that trip one-way?'

I narrowed my eyes at him. 'Are you threatening me?'

'I'm doing my job.' Yagoda drew his pistol and flipped it so the handle faced me. 'Now do yours.'

'KNEEL!' an agent barked, and the rows of prisoners fell to their knees with the crunch of snow.

I took the pistol from Yagoda's hand. 'This is a TK. That's only eight rounds.'

'That's why we brought a mag pouch. Plus your issue, and that's sixteen before you'll have to reload.'

'Fifteen.'

'What?'

'I shot a man in Kolyma.'

'Okay, fifteen.'

'I need more pistols.'

'Where you gonna put them, up your ass? Look, you just reload 'em both at the same time. You do that five times, and you can go home to your happy little family.'

I sent him a dark look before strapping on the mag pouch.

Yagoda's eyes glinted; he was enjoying this.

'I said, KNEEL!'

There was a _whack;_ then a cry of pain as someone fell into the snow.

'Start with that one,' Yagoda said, nodding in the direction of the prisoner who had just been stricken.

'I'll start with whichever _one_ I want,' I growled, cocking the pistol with a quick pullback of the barrel.

_CLACK-SHAK._

Snow crunched as I walked past shivering prisoners to the end of the first row. The lines left plenty of space for me to comfortably aim. I lifted the gun and looked down to see a girl trembling in torn clothes, nailless fingers dug into the wet strands of a brown ponytail.

Then I noticed a pair of cracked glasses lying upside-down in the snow.

Yagoda seemed irritated, flicking away his cigarette butt. ' _Shoot her,'_ he said, words sharply enunciated.

I didn't move.

'Goddammit—SHOOT HER, Braginsky, unless you'd rather your sister do it!'

I trained the pistol on the back of the girl's neck. It would kill her instantly, I told myself. She was doomed the moment she signed up for the agency, I told myself.

'Please, I-Ivan Zimav—'

_BANG!_

Her body gave a sudden jerk forward. Then it slumped to the side, almost in slow motion. Her thighs sagged into the snow with a crunch, the weight of her torso crushing one arm while the other rose above her head at an awkward angle. Her face was the last to roll up—a frozen look of surprise against splayed wet hair and a bright pool of blood that fanned into the snow.

I made it quick.

Steady gunshots were broken with the intermittent clacks of me fumbling with the pistols as I reloaded. I counted the shots to avoid accidentally firing on an empty magazine:

_Fourteen… fifteen … sixteen, reload._

Halfway through, my hand started to ache at the recoil.

When it was all done, I tossed the TK to Yagoda.

'Take me back to my family,' I growled.

He waved at several guards. 'You three, come back with us. The rest of you—there's another shipment of prisoners on the way. They got shovels; use 'em.'

I didn't even bother to look back as we trudged to the car, because I was all too familiar with what I would see: rows of dark corpses twisted in the snow, the forest floor bleeding bright red.

I could keep going and tell you stories like this for hours.

I could tell you how, a few days later, a package addressed to Natasha arrived at the mansion, and when she opened it a pair of cracked, bloody glasses tumbled out onto the dinner table. I could tell you how the OGPU's discovery of the Belarusian agency sent Stalin spiraling into paranoia, and within a few years I was sitting through show trials and executions of the most loyal Party members. I could tell you how the arrests spread like a disease—first to the army, then to the civilian population… and then to me.

I could tell you how, after the bullets didn't work, they shipped me to Siberia where I spent five months freezing and starving in an isolation cell. And I could tell you how I escaped and returned to a society even more poisoned with fear than before—because if Ivan Zimavich could be deported, _nobody_ was safe."

Silence hung in the kitchen as Russia filled two more glasses with vodka. He slid one across the table to Raivis, then raised his own in a silent toast before throwing it back.

Raivis just stared at his master, waiting for him to continue. But as the silence stretched on, he seemed to realize that Russia had stopped. Raivis glanced to Eduard in confusion.

_Is Russia… done?_

"Wait—I don't get it."

"What is there to not get," Russia said, setting the glass on the table with a _thunk._

"The whole shooting thing. What was the point of strapping me to a chair if you aren't even going to tell me about it?"

"That was a separate point, Latvia."

Raivis threw up his hands and sagged in his chair. "I'm lost."

Russia set his elbows on the table and leaned forward, locking Raivis in a gaze that made Eduard uncomfortable. "Perhaps the alcohol is getting to your brain, Little One. My sisters suffered in the early 30's so _you_ wouldn't have to."

Raivis blinked at his master. _"What?"_

"By the time the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact was in the works, I understood how Stalin intended to treat nation representatives. I understood his attitude towards 'traitors,' and what became of those 'traitors.' I knew _exactly_ what he wanted to do with you and your people. And that's why I made a deal with him."

Eduard frowned. _A deal?_

"I told Stalin, that if he would leave the three of you alone—no targeted famines, no mocking 'congratulations,' no arrests, no torture, no deportations, no manipulative executions or disturbing gifts in the mail—that I would make sure to discipline you myself. That not a word of a foreign language would be spoken in this house, not a _thought_ of rebelling against the Soviet Union would cross your minds.

"That man could falsely accuse my politicians, he could purge my army, he could strap me to a chair and try to kill me—but I would _not_ , under _any_ circumstances, allow him to lay a single finger on my family _ever_ again."

"But… he did…"

Russia lowered his glass. "What?"

"He did," Raivis said so quietly that Eduard barely heard it. The boy stared into his lap, hands tightening into fists as he began to tremble. "Thousands of our people were deported… they're slaving in the Gulags, too, and we feel their pain _every_ _day._ " He looked up with pleading eyes. "I know you think you've rescued us, Russia. But… does that really mean anything, if our people are still suffering?"

The surprise on Russia's face twisted into a scowl. "I think you fail to understand what I've done for you. You think 1939 was the only time Stalin wanted custody of you three? How about after the war—when you had been living in _Nazi Germany_ for three years? I went through hell fighting those racists, the _one_ thought I clung to was getting my family back, and _what_ did that bastard say to me at the Potsdam Conference!?"

Russia slammed his fist on the table so hard, the vodka bottles rattled. "He said both you and my sisters had been corrupted by fascist ideology, and the NKVD would oversee your 're-education' in the virtues of Communism. He said it so casually—as if all my sacrifices meant absolutely nothing to him."

Russia jabbed a finger across the table. "I _saved_ you, Latvia. For _you,_ I looked my General Secretary in the eye and told him no, not once, but twice. For _you,_ I made a deal that compromised how I wanted this damn household to be run so I could keep you out of the Gulag and away from people like Yagoda. And for _you_ , I have been running in circles for the past week trying _to keep it that way!"_

"I… I don't get it," Raivis frowned. "You're saying that—everything you've done to us since 1940, was just because of Stalin?"

"More or less, da."

Raivis straightened in his chair. "More or less?" he repeated, voice shaking with anger. "What does that mean? That if Stalin died tomorrow, you would just start treating us like equals?"

Russia's face fell in warning. "I never mentioned such a thing—"

"That if the Revolution never happened and the Communists hadn't come to power, that we would all still be living in your happy, 'rule-free' mansion in Petersburg? Is _that_ what you're saying?"

"Latvia, sit down."

"Because _we hated living there, too!"_ Raivis shouted, and Eduard realized his little brother was drunk. "Who was 'forcing' you to hurt us then, huh? The tsars? The nobles? Why do you think we were so eager to fight for independence at the first glimpse of your stupid Civil War—why do you think Toris kept running away, even when he thought you were his friend!?"

For the first time, Eduard saw Russia's expression break. "Litva—"

"Because you _hurt_ us!" Raivis shouted. "Not the tsars, not the secret police, not Stalin—you, Russia _you_ hurt us! And I'm sorry the Revolution sucked, and I'm sorry you had to watch your sisters suffer, but… that's no reason to treat us the way you do—the way you've _been_ treating us ever since you first locked me and Eduard in that dungeon over a century ago!"

At first Russia's expression twisted with anger, but then his brow smoothed and he fell back into his seat. The Russian reached up to tangle a hand into silver bangs.

"This… is why I wanted you at the meeting."

Raivis blinked, confused at the sudden change. "What?"

"The three of you know the system better than anyone, and I know you're not happy. There's a lot we can change, and I wanted you to _be_ there—"

"What are you talking about? I thought the meeting was—"

"A discussion about NATO? Hardly; that was only the cover-up story I used so Stalin would allow me to host it."

"Then… what is the meeting for?"

Russia met Raivis's gaze through the shadow of gloved fingers.

"The same exact reason I've decided to hold these 'sessions' with you, Latvia: To find out what my republics and satellite states _really_ think about Soviet Power."

* * *

Fan art by [Madam_Lotus](https://twitter.com/Madam_Lotus) (original post [HERE](https://chessna2.tumblr.com/post/182246138142/madamelotus-diamond-in-the-rough-what-germany))

* * *

HISTORY NOTES

**Uzbekistan**

The Communist leader of the Uzbek SSR, Fayzulla Khodzhayev, tried to increase Uzbek participation in Soviet government. But Stalin saw this as a threat, and by the late 30's Khodzhayev and all Uzbek nationalist leaders in high positions were deported and replaced with those loyal to the government in Moscow.

**Georgia**

My friend studied abroad in Georgia, and she emphasized how important hospitality is to the culture there. She said people are very friendly and outspoken. Having eaten at a Georgian restaurant myself, I can testify that Georgian food is some of the best this planet has to offer – especially the wine! Their alphabet is unique in the world, and fairly impossible for foreigners to read. For example, this is "Georgia" in Georgian: "საქართველო"

**Kyrgyzstan**

My other friend studied abroad in Kyrgyzstan. She said the mountains were visible from everywhere in Bishkek, and mentioned their... _interesting_ cuisine. Kyrgyz delicacies include horse meat and fermented mare's milk, called kymyz. The YouTube channel, _Geography Now!_ compares Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan to two brothers, the first of which is serious and business-focused, while the other prefers to just sing and dance in the mountains. I thought this would be a funny way to portray the two in Hetalia.

**Armenia and Azerbaijan**

After declaring independence from the Russian Empire on the same day in 1918, both Armenia and Azerbaijan lay claim to a territory which they both felt to be historically and ethnically theirs. This dispute led to the Armenian-Azerbaijani war from 1918-1920. The war only ended when Russia annexed both territories. Since then, tensions have remained high as occasional skirmishes have led to loss of life on both sides. Even today, the two nations have no diplomatic relations.

**Turkmenistan**

I based Turkmenistan's broody personality on the current form of Turkmen government. After gaining independence from the USSR in 1991, former Communist leader Saparmurat Niyazov declared himself "President for Life" of Turkmenistan. The nation cut all ties with military alliances, making it completely isolationist. During his time, Niyazov was one of the world's most repressive dictators and enforced a cult of personality. Today, Turkmenistan has been ranked as the 3rd worst country in the world for freedom of press, behind North Korea and Eritrea.

**Deportations to Siberia**

One of the most grueling parts of being deported to labor camps was the trip itself. Prisoners were packed into cattle cars for weeks of travel with little food or sanitary amenities. In the 1930's, the only way to reach the Kolyma camps was by sea. The conditions of prison ships were also poor—tens of thousands of prisoners would be crammed onboard, and the arctic weather made navigating dangerous.

**Gulag Labor Camps**

My main source for this chapter was Alexander Solzhenitsyn's _One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich,_ a book which covers one day of the life of a gulag prisoner. Solzhenitsyn himself was a prisoner in the camps for eight years, so a lot of the details I included here were autobiographical. Prisoners were divided into work squads, each with a squad leader. They were given rations based on how well they worked as a squad, which incentivized everyone to keep each other in line. Prisoners called each other by their names, but the guards only used numbers. Prisoners with more "cushy" jobs like cooking or bookkeeping had smaller numbers sewn onto their uniforms, rather than the huge white markings for the workers. _One Day in the Life_ was published in the Soviet Union in 1962, promoted by Khrushchev himself—and was wildly popular since so many Russians connected to an experience that had previously been taboo to even discuss. However when Solzhenitsyn later wrote a much harsher exposé of the camp system, _The Gulag Archipelago,_ he was exiled from the USSR.

**Genrikh Yagoda**

Yagoda was one of many in the long list of Chairmen of Soviet secret police. He played a large role in the collectivization process which caused the famine in Ukraine. During the Purges, Yagoda oversaw the show trials and executions of Old Bolshevik Party members, but Stalin was unhappy with his inability to fabricate evidence against them. In 1936, Yagoda was demoted and replaced. He was arrested in 1937 and shot for treason in 1938.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> Shashlik: the Russian word for "shish-kebab." Shashlik is a popular meal to cook at outside holidays or celebrations.  
> OGPU: the secret police of the Soviet Union from 1922 to 1934, after the Cheka and before the NKVD.  
> Zek: Russian slang for "prisoner," used specifically for the gulag camp system.  
> Valenki: boots without soles made from compressed felt. Valenki work well in dry snow, but get soaked with water during thaw. In "One Day in the Life," the prisoners had to choose between wearing the less cold-resistant leather boots, or valenki.  
> TK: short for the "Tulski Korovin" pistol, this was the standard firearm issued to Soviet secret police from 1926-1935
> 
> Click [HERE](https://chessna2.tumblr.com/post/182651182862/chapter-27-extra-materials) for a map of Ivan's travels, a 3D virtual tour of a Gulag camp, a history video, and Geography Now! videos for the Central Asian countries and Caucasus. The historians who run the Gulag Online Virtual Museum are from Czechia, and one of them actually came to my University to give a lecture! Imagine his surprise when I told him his website helped me write my novel! 
> 
> Thanks once again to Madam_Lotus for her incredible artwork, you should go check her out!


	28. Röövimine — Abduction

When the gunshots rang through the halls, Lithuania screamed.

Gilbert watched his rival's body recoil, as if he himself had been struck by the bullets. Lithuania's weight sagged against the door, and a wail of anguish twisted from his throat as he slid to the ground. His legs folded beneath him, fingers clawing the wood as his face split into a teary grimace.

Gilbert blinked and remembered how it felt to find out Ludwig was raped.

Like he was falling off a cliff. Like he couldn't breathe. How the words had ricocheted in his skull like maddened cannon fire: _This is your fault. You did this to him. You're a terrible big brother. What would Germania think. You bastard. Ludwig will never forgive you. He'll live with this for the rest of his life. This is your fault, this is your fault, THIS IS YOUR FAULT._

How the echo of Lithuania calling his name had been a lifeline thrown into the swirling chaos for Gilbert to cling to and drag himself out.

Gilbert ran to the door and knelt in front of Lithuania.

"Hey. _Hey!_ Look at me—"

Lithuania shook his head and wailed something incoherent in his own language. Gilbert cursed and grabbed his wrists, forcing Lithuania to look up at him. The Baltic shook his head, tears rolling down his cheeks as he fought Gilbert's grip, his protests growing louder.

"Ne, ne, _ne…"_

"Hey, Use—I mean, Lithuania! Goddammit— _Lietuva!"_

With that word, Lithuania stilled. Wide eyes looked up at Gilbert like a frightened rabbit in a cage.

Gilbert tightened his grip around Lithuania's wrists, sending him a stern glare in the dark. "Latvia will survive this. He's a nation. He's strong."

Lithuania started to mutter something else but Gilbert rattled him against the door, "Don't you _fucking_ interrupt me! Latvia's a nation, he'll be _fine._ And I'm not letting go until you calm the fuck down."

Lithuania blinked rapidly. "P… Prūsija—?"

"Look at me. _It's not your fault._ There's nothing you could have done. You can't think this way, Lithuania. It'll kill you."

Slowly, the knotted muscles in Lithuania's shoulders eased, and the resistance to Gilbert's grip relaxed. Panic fell into a numb stare, green eyes unfocused to some unknown space.

Gilbert let go.

Lithuania slumped against the door, head rolling back to stare at the ceiling. He resembled a wounded soldier, taking one last look at the sky as he bled out into the forest floor.

Gilbert stood and walked to the dresser, pulling out a drawer and feeling along the bottom until his hand brushed over a lighter and pack of cigarettes. He picked them up and strode back to the door, leaning against the wall and sliding to the ground next to Lithuania.

"Have some poison," he said dryly, offering Lithuania a cigarette. But Lithuania didn't even look at him.

The low timbre of Russia's voice rumbled through the halls. Gilbert shuddered—the image of Latvia getting ripped apart with bullets was enough to make him sick. He took a cigarette from the box and flicked on the lighter with a _click_ , soft orange flame sparking colors across his vision.

Lithuania's voice broke the silence: "What you said, about giving Raivis a share of my power. Do… do you think that really would have made a difference?"

The cigarette lit with a soft hiss. Gilbert flicked off the lighter, plunging them back into darkness. "What? No. Forget I said those things, I was being an ass."

"Could I have prevented this?" Lithuania continued, not hearing. He looked at his hands. "If I had treated Raivis the way you treated Germany… maybe he could have defended himself—"

"Nobody should treat anybody the way I treated Ludwig." Gilbert took a long pull of the cigarette, letting the burn fill his lungs.

Lithuania's hair fell across his shoulders as he turned to send Gilbert a confused look. "What?"

"All the shit you said earlier, about me dragging him into my power games over and over? You were right. I really fucked things up."

Lithuania frowned at the floor. "Oh."

The room was silent save for the hiss of embers burning on Gilbert's cigarette. He tried to make out any words from the kitchen, but all he could hear was the vibration of Russia's voice. Gilbert mentally cursed; it was torture not knowing what was going on.

_I guess we'll find out tomorrow morning._

Fabric shifted as Lithuania reached for the cigarette box resting on the floor between them. Gilbert listened to the flap open and the slide of paper against cardboard. The room was bathed in a warm orange light with a _click_.

"Hey, uh… I wanted to apologize. For what I said earlier, about you and Russia."

The lighter clattered to the floor.

Gilbert stared straight ahead through the smoke. "Everything I thought I knew about you, I learned from him. Not exactly a pretty picture."

Gilbert could feel Lithuania staring at him. He tried not to squirm.

"Anyway, I was wrong. So… yeah."

Lithuania leaned forward to prop his elbows on his knees. "Why are you being nice to me."

"Well, if we're going to be living together for the next century—"

"We're not."

"What?"

"We're going to be deported."

"How the hell do you know that?"

"I saw it in Ivan's face, when Raivis asked for you to stay."

"You… saw it in his _face,"_ Gilbert repeated.

"You don't have to believe me. But Ivan was scared, and the only thing that scares him is losing us." Lithuania took a pull of the cigarette.

Gilbert frowned at his rival. Lithuania's bangs hung in front of his face, and even in the dark he could make out circles beneath the Baltic's eyes. He seemed thin, and tired, and… _old._ Gilbert remembered when they were kids—screaming obscenities at each other as they fired arrows across the battlefield. Lithuania was a stubborn, clever bastard who never backed out of a fight. Quick-thinking, he moved fast, and he didn't bother with banter. Kill and get out, that was Lithuania's style.

The Lithuania of those days was nothing like the shell of a nation he saw now.

_This is what a century of living with Russia will do to you._

But the symptoms went beyond Lithuania's ragged appearance, or his beaten will. It was something Gilbert had been cautious to assume, but as the day went on, the implications had become clear.

Lithuania would strangle him for saying this.

But Gilbert had never been one for subtlety.

"Can I ask you something?"

"No."

"What's your… _deal_ with Russia?"

Lithuania scoffed, "Dieve, Prussia—"

"I don't mean to suggest you like the guy. It just seems as if… you keep siding with him over your brothers."

Lithuania's face twisted with indignation. "I _don't—"_

"Like when the MGB was here. That agent asked all three of you for a consensus, but Latvia had to speak Polish to get you to even look in their _direction._ Even if you did disobey Russia, you pretty much dissed Eddy and Latvia's decision in the same breath. Then you're lashing out at Eddy and spouting bullshit about how 'all we can do in this house is to obey orders'—you even said Latvia can't grow stronger. Isn't that something _Russia_ would say?"

"Every decision I make—"

"Is a decision to protect your brothers; yeah you keep saying that. Here's a question for you: What enabled the Nazis to murder so many Jews?"

Lithuania blinked, completely taken aback. Gilbert decided to answer his own question.

"I'll tell you what: Fear. If you got caught helping Jews in any capacity, that was it for you—off to a concentration camp you go. There were plenty of good people who hated the system, but didn't change it because they were too afraid to put their lives on the line. Those were the people who watched cattle cars leave their cities and didn't say a word, who reported hiding and fleeing Jews out of fear. Were their motivations justified? Maybe. But in the end, they were as much a part of the system as the SS.

"I get that you want to protect Latvia and Eddy. But in fearing the system too much to change it, you end up enforcing it. Either you stand with your brothers, or you play it safe and keep Russia happy at their expense. You can't do both."

Lithuania's voice shook, "You don't know what it's like. You don't understand the consequences—"

Gilbert scoffed, "Consequences have nothing to do with it. Your brothers are _ready_ for a change, Lithuania—why do you think they leapt at the chance to disobey Russia? They know you'll keep falling back to the safety net of the deal, and they're trying to cut you out of it."

Lithuania's eyes widened. "How do you—"

"Latvia told me while we were doing chores. He and Eddy had already been brainstorming for ways to save you, and the MGB practically handed them a solution on a platter."

Now Lithuania looked even more confused. "But… I thought they disobeyed the MGB to save _you."_

Gilbert chuckled. "You flatter me, Useless. But this is exactly what I'm talking about—you would sooner believe that your brothers, who have known you for almost a _century,_ would risk their skins to save some cocky asshole they just met, rather than free you from a shitty relationship."

"So… they _didn't_ do it to save you?"

"Jesus Christ, Lithuania."

His rival scowled at him through the haze of cigarette smoke. "I'm trying to figure out what the hell you're saying! Eduard and Raivis went on and on about 'forgiving' you—did I misunderstand what they meant by that?"

" _No,_ I just think you missed the part where they saved your pagan ass from Russia's eternal control, and you need to stop giving them shit about it."

"How does disobeying Ivan save me!?"

"By getting you to wake _the fuck_ up!"

Gilbert's shout rattled the bed frames. It was then he realized yelling was a bad idea; Russia could hear his voice and come downstairs to investigate. He fell back against the wall with an explosive sigh.

"Look. I'm no expert on Russia. But I do know what he's told me in seven years of drunken rants: _You make Russia feel good._ Attention from you is no different than a bottle of booze to him; a numbing buzz to block out the pain. Even worse, he _expects_ you to make him feel good, and he's been pushing these expectations on you for, what, over a century now? But here's the thing: Those expectations are complete bullshit. You're not responsible for Russia's happiness, HE is."

Gilbert rested his hands on his knees and watched the orange ring of the cigarette glow in the dark. "You have two brothers who love you, like, a LOT. But if you keep siding with Russia—out of fear, or some false obligation to him, or _whatever_ excuses run through your dumb head—then they'll get tired of vying for your attention. They'll just let you go, and then they'll fade away, and then one day when you need them the most, you'll look around and realize you're completely alone."

A heavy silence hung in the bedroom. Gilbert sucked on the cigarette and tried to ignore the twisting pain in his stomach that had been plaguing him since that afternoon.

"Prussia… what happened to you in Ivan's office?"

Gilbert bit back a groan. That was another trait he'd forgotten about Lithuania: the heathen was a mind reader.

"I know you didn't clean up the blood," Lithuania said, as if that would somehow prompt Gilbert to share his deepest darkest secrets.

Gilbert watched the smoke twist and curl to the ceiling. 

_Well I guess since we're going to be deported anyway…_

"Ludwig doesn't want to see me."

"Did Ivan tell you that?"

"Yeah."

"You know he's probably lying."

"I know."

Gilbert leaned back on the wall and closed his eyes. "But it's the only thing that makes sense to me right now."

Once again, the bedroom was choked with silence. The rumble of Russia's voice still floated down from the kitchen.

_Jesus, how long is the guy going to talk?_

Gilbert wondered how Latvia was holding up. What if Russia was making the kid bleed through some god-awful Communist monologue?

Lithuania's voice cut through his thoughts: "Whoever let nations be older brothers has a sick sense of humor."

Gilbert didn't know why, but he laughed. His lips pulled into a cat-like grin as he said,

"Finally, something we can agree on."

* * *

Eduard refused to believe the words he'd just heard.

It had to be a lie. Some elaborate trick, to make it seem as though Russia had "good" intentions all along. Even Raivis was aghast, mouth hanging open as he gaped at his master across the table.

"You don't believe me," Russia said simply. A sad smile crossed his face. "To be honest, I don't blame you. After almost three decades of blindly following Comrade Stalin's orders… why would I choose to care now?"

Russia swirled the vodka in his glass. "The unfortunate truth is that without Stalin, I may not have risen to the great power I am today. Industrialization was brutal, yes—but in the span of a decade, I had caught up to hundreds of years' worth of development in Europe. By brokering a deal with the Nazis, Stalin was able to hold off the war for another two years. And though his purges of my army plagued us, he didn't break under the pressure. In '45 I remember staring myself in the mirror at Potsdam and thinking, 'Am I really the only one left standing?' Sitting around that table carving out Europe's borders was a far cry from the night I'd spent drinking myself away in my dead sister's bedroom. And regardless of the horrible things he's done, Stalin led me to that change. My people hate him, and fear him… but they also love him. Just like the tsars, he has become a god."

Russia set the glass on the table, lips curling into a snarl. "But not even gods can last forever. Stalin _will_ die—just like all the other 'gods' before him. And without a successor, there will be a deep, terrified silence as the whole of the USSR holds its breath in his absence. And if I can't judge what needs to change before the blood starts flying again, the next leader to claw his way to the top might be just as mad."

"So… you… want us to tell you… what's wrong?"

"What you would like to see," Russia corrected. "Assuming some changes could be made."

"And… that's why you wanted to hold a meeting with everyone? It had nothing to do with NATO, or Prussia, or Poland—"

"Nyet," Russia shook his head. "Prussiya was taking up space in my dungeon and I had already been looking for an excuse to release him. When Litva first suggested I meet with our allies, a secret meeting seemed the obvious solution to both problems. But that night, Winter warned me Litva could be causing trouble."

Russia's face fell. "The next morning when I found the knife missing, I became paranoid. If Winter was right and Toris was planning an escape, the MGB would arrest and deport all three of you. So I did everything in my power to stop that from happening."

"So… when you beat Eduard…"

Eduard leaned forward; he wanted to hear _this_ excuse.

"That was the hardest choice," Russia said, face twisting into a wince. "Once I realized Litva and Estonia were working together, it was too dangerous to let any plan continue, escape or not. And I knew the fastest way to stop Toris from working behind my back was to hurt his brothers."

"His _family,"_ Raivis stressed.

Russia's gaze darkened. "You think I took that decision lightly? I had to choose between preventing your deportation and preserving what little was left of Toris's trust—"

"You think Toris _trusts_ you!?"

"—and just when I thought I had everything under control, you, in your utter _stupidity_ , directly disobeyed me in front of the MGB!" Russia stood from his chair so fast that it clattered to the floor, voice rising to a volume that rattled the windows:

"So now I ask you this, Latvia: What the _fuck_ was it all for!?"

"I-I don't—"

"For what reason did my sisters almost freeze and starve to death, for what reason was I forced to murder Natasha's people? Had I known you were going to gladly leap into Stalin's arms I would have _dropped you off at his office_ the day we signed that damn Pact."

He stormed around the table, grabbing the top of Raivis's chair so the boy shrank back into it and trembled. Russia's voice fell to a deadly hiss, "I'd like to know just exactly how long you think you can last in Siberia. Because as stubborn and _stupid_ as you are, you cannot change the fact that you and your brothers would break into _pieces_ at the hands of the MGB. You don't believe me?"

"I-I—I didn't say—"

"Then how would you like me to strap you to that chair again, Latvia? Let's see how well you fare with _real_ bullets in your chest."

Eduard watched his brother's eyes spill over with tears.

"What do you want me to say!?" Raivis cried. "That we're sorry, that we didn't know!? Do you want me to beg you to save us, to make yourself out to be some kind of _hero!?"_

Russia flinched at the last word. "I'm not—"

"Because you're _not,_ Russia! You will never be that to us, no matter what you do or what stories you spin, we will _never_ think of you that way!"

To Eduard's surprise, Russia's face fell into a look of hurt. "I never asked to be that," he said, almost pleading. "I just wanted to be fami—"

"You don't even know what that word _means!"_ Raivis's voice shook with sobs, his eyes rimmed red. "How—how can you, when you just shot me five times! How can you, when you keep us here with threats and fake promises?"

Russia stepped back in defense. "I don't—"

"You want to know what I would change, Russia? You want to know, what I wish was different in this damn regime?!" Raivis shot a glare of violet fire through his bangs as he shouted,

" _YOU!"_

Eduard's jaw dropped.

"You said it yourself, that family is at the very core of your value system! Well if that's the case, then—then why don't you actually start treating us like one, huh!? If it's a family you want, then don't treat us like your damn property! If it's a family you want, then don't whip us or beat us when we do something wrong! And if it's a family you want, then don't put us in a position, where Toris has to sell out his own _body_ just to protect me and Eduard!"

A spark lit in Russia's eyes. "Litva made that choice himself."

" _Did_ he? What was the alternative?"

"To obey me—"

"That's—not— _FAMILY!"_

The boy's fists trembled at his sides, red cheeks shimmering in the kitchen light. He had jumped up on the chair so he stood eye level with the Russian.

Russia stared back—first with shock, then anger… then his face smoothed into an emotionless mask.

"You're right."

Never—not _once_ in over a century of living with Russia—had Eduard _ever_ heard him admit to being wrong.

Russia took a step away from the chair, turning his back to Raivis. Eduard shared a shocked glance with his brother. He didn't dare believe it—after all these years, was Russia going to _listen_ to them?

A low, calm voice broke the silence:

"No matter what I do, the three of you will always find reasons to hate me."

Eduard turned his attention back to his master. Thick brows carved creases across Russia’s forehead, lips curled into a look of disgust.

_No…_

Raivis frowned, "That's not what I—"

"If I were to make the month-long trip and rescue you from the Gulag, you would refuse to see me as your savior and hate me for putting the prison system into place. And if I kept on living my life here while the three of you slaved away, you would hate me for _not_ rescuing you."

Raivis took a breath to argue, but his voice stuck in his throat.

Russia curled a fist on the table. "Am I wrong?"

Raivis said nothing.

A sudden chill bit into Eduard's skin as the air temperature dropped. The slow words dripped from Russia's lips like tar:

"Then why do I even _bother."_

Fear flickered across Raivis's face. "Russia—we don't _have_ to hate you. If you would just make some changes—"

Russia wheeled around to send the boy a glare of ice. "You just said it yourself: You will _never_ see me as a hero. And you're absolutely right, Latvia. You know what? The three of you can _rot_ in Siberia for all I care. It's not like an ounce of worrying on my part would change the way you feel about me."

"You don't change that by 'worrying' about us, you change it by treating us better!"

But Russia was already swiping up the vodka bottles and throwing them into the garbage can. Raivis seemed to panic as he realized this conversation had spiraled somewhere dangerous.

"Russia, _please_ listen to me—"

"Go to bed, Latvia. We're done."

Eduard bit his lip; _Don't push it, Raivis, you need to get out of there!_

"But—what about the MGB?"

Russia deadpanned as he said, "It's not my problem. Now get out of my kitchen."

"But the bedroom door is locked—"

"I said GET OUT!" Russia spun and drew something from his coat.

Eduard's throat clogged with a gasp.

The pistol shook violently in Russia's grip. Violet eyes darted to the weapon, then he jolted and snatched his hand away as if it stung him. The kitchen echoed with a clatter of the gun hitting tile. Russia backed into the counter, breaths trembling.

"Latvia," he said quietly. "Go."

Raivis sent Eduard a pleading look.

 _You_ _did what you could, Raivis. You were amazing. You don't have to fight anymore._

Raivis winced. Then he stepped off the chair, and the slap of bare feet against tile faded as he left Russia alone in the kitchen.

* * *

Adrik hated December.

The nights were long, and the sky a colorless grey wash that faded into blue as the sun sank much too early. And there was, of course, the cold.

He shivered and sank his chin further into his scarf. Adrik didn't know what was worse—Königsburg, Leningrad, or Moscow. Some days he would tell himself he should have built up a tolerance to the cold, after spending so many nights freezing in a prison cell and trudging through snow on the Eastern Front. But winter is merciless, and the body has a short memory.

"How much longer?" he muttered to the lookout.

"No way to tell. Damn light's still on."

Adrik scoffed. They had been waiting for what felt like an hour. He had lost feeling in his toes ages ago.

The yellow light casting shadows onto the snow flicked off.

"That's our signal," the lookout said.

Adrik turned to his squad, a fir branch dusting snow onto his shoulders. "Remember our orders," he growled through his scarf. "No bullets."

"Yes, Comrade!"

Military equipment bumped and clattered, snow crunching as the group crept out from the thick of the trees and down the slope to the hulking shadow of the mansion. Adrik watched their silhouettes until they disappeared near the wall.

They waited.

"What's the hold-up?" the lookout hissed.

"Dunno. Maybe he didn't go straight back to the room."

At last, dark figures emerged from shadow to trudge up the slope. One agent carried a body thrown over his shoulder, light-tinted night clothes glowing white in the snow. A bag had been tied over the figure's head.

Branches bent and snapped as the agents ducked back to their hideout.

"We got him, Comrade!"

"That serum fucking _works._ The freak was out in a few seconds."

Adrik moved to get a better look at the man hanging over the agent's shoulder. "Let me see his face."

"Comrade Shkarov thinks we can't read a blueprint," someone joked.

"Comrade _Ignatev_ wants confirmation. Show me his face."

As the agents fiddled with the string, Adrik slipped his pistol out of its holster.

The bag was yanked down with a _whoosh_ to reveal strands of hair hanging on end. Adrik grabbed the unconscious man by the cheeks and turned mashed lips to the side, cold skin glowing grey in the snow.

"Shit, something fell."

An agent bent down and handed Adrik a pair of cracked glasses. "He won't be needing those anymore."

"He never needed them."

"What?"

" _He_ doesn't wear glasses. You idiots…"

Adrik shoved his pistol back in its holster.

He really hated December.

* * *

Ivan's legs felt heavy, as though weighed down with lead. The door creaked as he pushed it open, light-polluted glow filtering through the curtains to cast his long shadow across the floor. He let out a deep sigh, crossing the room and kicking off his boots. He fell back onto the bed, and the mattress creaked as he threw an arm over his eyes.

"Natasha," Ivan whispered. A bitter smile crossed his face. "You were right…"

Even after six years, he could still remember the hatred burning in her eyes—pearl silken nightgown splattered with crimson flecks, hair tumbling into a tangled mess over her shoulders, mouth-shaped splotches marking up the curvature of her neck…

" _He is a threat to our family, an imposter, and you are blind not to see it! He has worked his way into both of our hearts and he will tear us apart, brother! He will use us against each other, to weaken us so he can escape!"_

" _Litva is not a threat to this family, Natasha, you are._ You _are the one tearing us apart; your jealousy has driven you mad!"_

" _And WHAT is the reason for my jealousy, brother?! You say you have worked hard to build a family, but all you do is continue to push out the real family you have! All you care about are your subordinates—those ungrateful rats who don't even want to be here!"_

" _That's not true—"_

" _YES IT IS! Just accept it, Vanya! They hate you, they hate every minute in this place, and they will NEVER be a part of your family!"_

Ivan's eyes burned. He had been so angry with her for saying that, at the time he had refused to believe it…

"I _am in charge of this family, and_ I _get to say who is a part of it and who is not. And it seems to me that it would be better for MY family if you were not in it."_

Ivan rolled to his side, gloved hands balling the sheets into fists. He _hated_ that he cared. How much easier would this all be, if he could turn off his humanity like a switch?

Winter was right: Emotions got in the way.

Ivan pushed himself up with shaky arms, reaching to snatch a bottle of vodka from the side table. He rose it to his lips, closing his eyes at the familiar burn sliding down his throat. He needed something to block out the pain, to shut out the voices screaming in his head:

_They hate you, they hate every minute in this place! We all have a choice, Rus. That's—not—FAMILY!_

The phone rang.

Ivan nearly choked on his vodka as he jolted in surprise. He sputtered, wiping his hand across his mouth and staring at the phone as it continued to ring—a horrid, blaring sound that cut through the peaceful night like a saw. A primal fear clutched his chest; the memory of a 4am phone call in June of '41…

Ivan set down the bottle and slid off the bed, forgetting his boots were still on the floor as he half-hopped, half-staggered to the sitting area. _Shit, I'm already drunk,_ was his thought as he wrenched the phone from the stand.

"Ivan Zimavich speaking," he rumbled. Ivan cleared his throat, trying to play off the scratchy voice as a side-effect of having just woken up.

" _Comrade Braginsky,"_ came the stern reply. Ivan recognized the voice as Seymon Denisovich, head of the MGB. A dark uneasiness came over him.

"Dobri vecher, Comrade Ignatev. I hope there is not some kind of problem; it is rather late for you to be calling me."

" _Yes, well, I'm not so thrilled to be up, either. I'm calling to inform you of an emergency meeting that will be held at the Kremlin tomorrow morning."_

Ivan frowned. "What is it? The Americans?"

" _Something like this. Comrade Stalin wouldn't even tell me what it was about. Regardless, we expect to see you tomorrow—"_

"Wait, Comrade Stalin is conducting this meeting? Why didn't he call me himself?"

" _I will see you tomorrow morning, Braginsky. Seven o' clock, sharp."_

The line cut off with a _click._

Ivan held the phone to his ear a few moments before setting it back on the stand.

He felt sick.

The set-up was insultingly obvious: an "emergency meeting" to remove him from the premises, leaving his family defenseless. The MGB would sweep in and arrest all four without a fight. His house would be empty by the time he came home.

But he didn't care anymore… right?

_Let them slave in Siberia, the ungrateful rats. Let Winter have his fun, let their teeth fall out and their bones creak and their dreams be filled with fireplaces… let their screams echo through the torture cells until the floor shines slick with their blood…_

Ivan fell into an armchair.

Oh _god._

He wished Toris were here.

Toris, who sat and listened patiently while Ivan divulged each excruciating detail of his ancient past. Toris, who didn't call him weak or pathetic when just talking about it made him cry. Toris, who kissed him in that Petersburg bar like nobody had ever kissed him. Toris, with splayed hair and flushed cheeks, breathy curses in Lithuanian and moans of Ivan's name hot against his skin…

Toris, who knew him fully, who had loved him in _spite_ of what he knew, and who Ivan had thought would love him no matter what he _did._

He could almost hear the cold cackles of Winter and Natasha laughing at him: _We told you so._

It felt as though a gaping hole had opened up in Ivan's chest, and the only person he had thought could fill it was going to be deported tomorrow.

Even worse: He needed the strength to let it happen.

Ivan reached for the bottle, and drowned himself.

* * *

" _GET OUT!"_

Toris jumped, the cigarette falling to the floor. He and Prussia shared a horrified look.

"Shit," Toris hissed, scrambling to his knees and pressing his ear to the door.

Agonizing silence stretched on for what felt like a minute.

Suddenly, movement—soft footsteps neared, then someone knelt down outside the door. A low vibration resonated through his skull; Toris jumped back with a sharp gasp.

Eduard was… _tapping on the door?_

"That sly bastard," Prussia grinned. "It's Morse!"

Toris froze and listened. Prussia was right—the sharp series of taps spelled out one letter at a time, repeating the message over and over:

_RAIVIS IS FINE_

Toris nearly cried out in relief.

"What did he say?" Prussia hissed, and Toris realized he couldn't understand Russian Morse.

"He said Raivis is fine," he whispered, breathless, and the Prussian's eyes widened. Toris tapped back his own message:

_GUN SHOTS?_

_MISSED ON PURPOSE_

_IS HE HURT_

_NO_

_AND YOU_

_I'M FINE_

Toris let out a breath he didn't know he had been holding.

"What, what?" Prussia pressed.

"Eduard says the gunshots were missed on purpose. Also Ivan never saw him; we're safe."

"Wait, Snow Bastard faked the whole thing!?"

" _Shh,_ he's saying something else." Toris put his ear to the door.

_DID YOU KNOW ABOUT MGB_

Toris's stomach tightened. If Eduard was asking about the MGB, it was a bad sign his prediction had been correct.

_YES_

The taps were faster, _WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME_

"What now?"

"Eduard's upset I didn't tell him about the deportation."

"Yeah, well that _is_ pretty vital information."

Toris shot Prussia a glare, then tapped his answer on the door:

_IMPOSSIBLE TO STOP_

_WHAT NOW / RUS ANGRY / WON'T HELP_

Toris's hand fell from the door. Why did it feel like he had just been punched in the stomach? He closed his eyes and forced his spiraling nerves under control. "Ivan won't help us. But we still have time, I can think of something."

Prussia raised a questioning eyebrow.

_WE HAVE TIME / WILL TALK TOMORROW_

_BE CAREFUL_

_YOU TOO_

_GOOD NIGHT_

Toris listened as Eduard's footsteps faded down the hall, then the door to Prussia's room clicked shut.

His entire weight slumped against the wood, and he realized how fast his heart had been beating. Toris didn't know whether to be relieved or terrified.

_Raivis is okay. But…_

Prussia stood and stretched. "So," he said, voice gaping with a yawn. "Deportation, huh? Wouldn't be the worst thing that's happened to me."

Toris bent over and raked his fingers through his bangs.

_Ivan has leverage. He could go to Stalin; negotiate like he did before. I've just got to convince him…_

"Hey, Useless."

_But he's so angry with me… Shit… What could I do… Play the helpless victim? Cry? Get on my knees and beg? I could apologize—I could promise to do whatever he wants and never turn my back on him again… he'd probably hit me, or worse…_

"Useless!"

_Shit. I don't even know if this will work. The deal's off; there's nothing to stop him from going off the rails now. But I have to protect Eduard and Raivis; if I don't we'll be deported, and we can't survive that, not after what Natalia told me—!_

Something hit Toris in the face, and he recoiled and swatted the air. A cigarette butt fell into his lap.

"Great, you're back," Prussia drawled, putting a hand on his hip. "Care to share this master plan of yours?"

For a brief moment, Toris wished Ivan would come unlock the door if only to spare him from Prussia's incessant questions. He scowled as he dusted ashes off his pants.

"I'll convince Ivan to help us."

Toris expected a sharp-witted retort, but the bedroom fell silent. He looked up to see Prussia's jaw hanging open.

"Russia," Prussia finally repeated, voice flat with disbelief. "Your master plan is to get help… from _Russia."_

Toris picked up the cigarette box and opened the flap to see that between the two of them, they had smoked half the pack. "It's our only option."

"Mein Gott, don't tell me you actually believe that."

_Stop._

Toris stood and walked past Prussia to toss the box into the dresser drawer. He hoped Prussia would take the hint and leave him alone.

"What about your brothers, huh? How's that for an option?"

_Stop._

"That's not—"

"What, _safe?_ As if making another twisted deal with Russia is any better?"

_Stop. Stop. STOP._

A pressure built behind his eyes and in his throat. Toris's words shook, "I didn't say anything about another deal."

"Oh please, we both know that's exactly how this conversation will go—"

_"I don't WANT to do this, Prussia!"_

Toris barely recognized his own voice—raw and grated, loud enough to echo in the small room. His pulse pounded in his ears, he felt as if his limbs were being stretched out on a dissection table and he had been begging Prussia to look away but he _wasn't_ and he kept _cutting,_ and it _hurt_ and Toris just wanted to _run away…_

His voice cracked with the urgency of his plea:

"Who… would want this? You act like this is _easy_ for me! I have to reject everything I stand for, I have to shut out the millions of voices screaming in my head to fight back, I have to swallow my pride and _pretend_ to be obedient just to save our own skins—"

"You don't have to do that."

_Stop! Just stop, please!_

"Yes, I do."

"No, you don't."

Tears filled Toris's eyes. " _Prussia—"_

"Russia is NOT the end of the road, Lithuania! He's not—written in stone, or some fated end for you. He's just an asshole who has you wrapped around his finger like a tricolor ribbon, and as long as you keep treating him like a quick fix, your shit's just going to keep piling up until you fucking _suffocate!"_

_"I AM SUFFOCATING!"_

And Toris collapsed on the floor, and wept.


	29. Tada ir Dabar — Then and Now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: This chapter includes a depiction of sexual assault. If this is triggering to you, skip past the end of the italic section. Also, as a quick reminder, Toris and Ivan first fell in love in 1796 (sixteen years before this flashback) and the first time Toris ran away from Ivan's Petersburg Estate was in 1830 (eighteen years after this flashback)

_July 5, 1812_

_My Dearest Tolya,_

_I regret to say that I wish there were better circumstances under which I could be writing you. However this is an issue which, I'm afraid, cannot be ignored._

_I was alarmed and dismayed, when this very afternoon, our spies reported having seen you engage in open support of the Grand Armée upon their arrival in Vilnius. You were sighted in private negotiation talks with French representative François Bonnefoi, then later with Napoleon Bonaparte himself, along with a cohort of his generals. This, in conjunction with the recruitment of thousands of Lithuanian soldiers who have, according to the reports, "enthusiastically joined the army of twelve tongues." Perhaps now we can consider it as thirteen._

_My concerns regarding this information should be self-evident. I was under the impression that you were loyal to me, as well as the Russian Empire, when you asked permission to be sent to the front to "maintain order." I am aware you had been in close correspondence with your leaders prior to making this request; had there been any intention of colluding with the French I would have expected you to inform me immediately._

_The significance of a Russian victory in this war cannot be understated. The news that you not only lied to me about your motives regarding deployment, but are now fighting in support of an army that poses a dire threat to my land and my people, has shaken me to my core._

_It may be foolish of me to do so, but for the time being I can only hope the reports are false. Prior to this afternoon, I could have never imagined you would betray me in such a way. Please write back as soon as possible so I can be rid of these allegations._

_With love,  
_ _I.Z. Braginsky  
Russian Empire_

_July 18, 1812_

_Dear Vanya,_

_The reports are true._

_I admit I should have informed you of my intentions earlier. I knew my people were growing dissatisfied with Russian rule; however the likelihood of gaining autonomy from France was unclear to me while I remained in Saint Petersburg. I urged my leaders not to make any commitments until we spoke with France and his officials in person._

_I have elected not to join the Grand Armée, but to remain here in Vilnius for the duration of the invasion. This is largely due to a lack of trust—France himself offered me independence in exchange for my support, but despite my requests for our agreement to be drawn out on paper, the French have kept the fate of Lithuania ambiguous._

_A Provisional Government has been established in Vilnius, but I fear the French have no intention of releasing their control over my territory. The Grand Armée has little food supply, and as a result have looted and stolen from my people. The recruits I entrusted to France's leadership now suffer from hunger and disease._

_Please understand my alliance with the French is purely political and is in no way a personal betrayal to you, nor is it a public stunt intended to end our relationship. We have repeatedly established there may come a day when our political alignments must part, as my goal has been to become independent of the Russian Empire._

_I do miss you, and again I apologize as I could have gone about this in a way that was more considerate to you and your position. I hope this letter clarifies any confusion you may have regarding my intentions._

_With love,  
Toris Laurinaitis  
Laikinoji Lietuvos Didžioji Kunigaikštystė_

_The road to Saint Petersburg was littered with the dead._

_Broken wagons and frozen corpses protruded from the December ice—a trail of misery and suffering left by the retreating French army. The eerie spectacle only confirmed Toris's visions and the reports he had received from his soldiers: Horses slashed open for meat, entire villages looted then burned to ash, the frozen statues of men who fell asleep and never woke up, their faces blackened with frostbite._

_A third of Toris's people had died in this war._

_A gaping emptiness settled where their lives and dreams had once pulsed in his heart. He would have preferred to stay longer in Vilnius and help his people recover in the aftermath, but Ivan had made it clear he wanted him back in Petersburg before the New Year._

_Toris shifted in the saddle, reaching out to rub his travel companion's sinewy neck. White flecks of snow collected in the coarse strands of her mane._

_"Don't worry, Vėja, we're almost there."_

_Ivan annoyed him._

_For five months this war had waged, and not a single letter from him since July. When at last Ivan arrived in Vilnius with Kutuzov's men, he barely even looked at Toris. Toris had tried to speak to him in private, but Ivan only snapped a short, "We'll talk at home."_

_And so after a week of fighting the very same weather that spelled Napoleon's doom, Toris finally arrived at the Estate._

_He steered Vėja to the back of the property, past the silver skeletons of hedges and the classical fountain dripping with icicles. The loamy smell of stables filled his lungs, as he swung his leg over the saddle and stepped on the ground with the crunch of iced mud. A muscular grey Vyatka rose its head, obsidian eyes following Toris as he guided Vėja to her stall._

_"Hey, Volodya."_

_Ivan named all of his horses Volodya._

_Straw crunched beneath Vėja's hooves as Toris led her into her designated stall. All her grooming equipment was right where he'd left it six months ago. Toris secured the lead around a post, buckles and bridle clinking as he slid it over her ears. As he worked on the saddle, he glanced up to see a freckled boy leaning against the stall door._

_"You're back," Livonia stated obviously._

_It was the best greeting Toris could have hoped for—he and the small Baltic nation didn't talk much._

_Toris heaved the saddle off Vėja's back, leather slapping against the door as he hung it over the edge. "Are there any oats?"_

_"We've been short since the war, but yeah." Livonia gestured to the corner where feed was stored. Toris opened the stall door, and the boy lifted a vodka bottle to his lips. Toris felt Livonia's gaze on him as he scooped the grain into a metal pan._

" _Wait." Toris glanced up as something dawned on him. "You're speaking Russian." Normally he and Livonia spoke Polish, since the Baltic was a lot more comfortable in that language._

_"A few of Russia's generals were Baltic Germans," Livonia explained. "So Eduard and I were named second-in-command for those units. I guess you could call it military immersion."_

_Toris was surprised—Estonia and Livonia were good fighters, but he had never imagined Ivan putting their skills to use on the battlefield. The more he thought about it, the more it made sense: Estonia and Livonia didn't have much of a national identity to begin with, so of course they'd be happy taking orders from the tsar._

_He carried the pan back to the stall and set it on the ground with a rattle. Vėja lowered her head, velvet nostrils flaring as the stable filed with the crunch of oats between her teeth._

_"I was surprised you fought with the French," Livonia continued._

_Toris tensed._

_"You know, since you and Russia—"_

_"Is Ivan home?" Toris interrupted, hoping to change the subject._

_Livonia frowned, sensing the intent behind the question. "Yeah, in his office."_

" _I need to go talk to him. Can you clean Vėja's hooves for me?"_

" _Well actually—"_

" _Don't use the old hoof pick; it's too sharp. Oh, and if you could break the ice in her trough—"_

" _Russia already told me to muck out all these stalls so…"_

_"Thanks!" Toris called as he strode out of the stables, not having heard whatever Livonia just said. A new nervousness churned in his stomach—talking with Estonia and Livonia reminded him how much he valued Ivan's friendship._

_He entered through one of the estate's back doors, hanging up his overcoat and unwinding the scarf before making his way towards Ivan's office. It wasn't long before Toris approached the figure of Estonia dusting a wooden buffet piece in the hallway._

_"Raivis, wie oft habe ich dir schon gesagt, dass du dich nach dem Ausmisten des Stalls waschen sollst—"_

_The sentence cut off as Estonia glanced up and realized he was not speaking with Livonia. Teal eyes did a quick judgmental scan of Toris's figure. "You look terrible."_

_"I smell terrible, too," Toris said, hoping to add some humor to the situation._

_Estonia just raised an unimpressed eyebrow and returned to dusting the table._

_Now Toris wanted to see Ivan so much, his chest ached._

_He resumed a quick pace, until at last he arrived at the elegant oak doors. He pushed them open without knocking, then rested his back on the carved wood as they fell shut behind him._

_Toris closed his eyes and took a deep breath._

_Ivan's office smelled like books and tea and memories. This was where their relationship had begun—Toris struggling to work through Russian material while Ivan patiently helped him with vocabulary and pronunciation. Ivan would bring him artifacts and ancient texts to explain his history while Toris listened with fascinated horror. They had spent countless hours in this room together—through the awkward miscommunications, laughter, tears, and comfortable silence. Just being in this space again released the tension from Toris's shoulders._

_He opened his eyes to see the Russian hunched behind his desk, intensely focused on some paperwork. Toris frowned; he had expected Ivan to notice him by now._

_He crossed the room, and as he drew nearer it became clear something was wrong. Ivan wore nothing but a loose white shirt and pants, without the usual overcoat and laced collar. Even his scarf was absent, jagged pink scars encircling his neck in an unsettling ring. His hair was ruffled and oily—a sign he hadn't washed or combed it in days. And the biggest indication: Empty vodka bottles cluttered the Russian's desk._

_Now Toris stood only a few paces away. The office was silent save for the ticking of a clock and the soft scratch of quill on parchment._

_"You said you wanted me back before New Year’s,'" Toris said evenly._

_Ivan didn't answer._

_Toris spread his arms in a courtly bow: "Your prince has returned."_

" _Six hundred years."_

_Toris straightened. "What?"_

" _Six hundred years," Ivan repeated, still not looking up from his desk. "That's how long it's been since this country has faced a large-scale foreign invasion. Do you know who was the last to attempt such a feat?"_

" _Ivan—"_

" _The_ Mongols," _Ivan stressed, violets flicking up to lock Toris in an intense gaze._

 _Toris had seen his lover's temper flare up before, but never towards him. He remembered his fights with Feliks and braced himself._ " _I know that," he said quietly._

 _Ivan's face darkened, and he threw the pen onto his desk as he rose sharply from his chair, "Then you must have known how fucking_ scared _I was. What did you think this war was to me, Toris? Another one of your Western 'power games?' A fun opportunity for you to go making political deals behind my back?"_

" _I told you, it wasn't personal—"_

" _I thought you of all people would be able to discern when politics have gone too far. That you would put your friends first."_

" _Ivan, this had nothing to do with you. It was for my people—"_

" _We burned_ Moscow!" _Ivan shrieked, and Toris flinched. "We… we lit it on fire, I was screaming for_ days. _And the entire time, all I could do was to imagine you and those disgusting French generals toasting to my defeat."_

 _It struck Toris that this was Ivan's first long-term relationship. Of course detangling politics from personal matters would be difficult._ _He let out a deep sigh, then strode around the desk until he stood in front of Ivan. His gaze fell to the writhing scar tissue around the Russian's neck, and suddenly he understood the level of betrayal Ivan must feel._

 _Toris reached up to smooth a hand down the side of Ivan's face._ " _Vanya," he said gently, and the diminutive had an immediate effect._

_Ivan closed his eyes and leaned into the touch, taking a shaky breath through his nose. Then an invisible barrier seemed to break, and strong arms crushed Toris to Ivan's chest in a desperate hug. Toris's lungs filled with the scent of vodka and winter. He wrapped his own arms around Ivan's broad shoulders and felt the stress leak out of his body._

" _I missed you," Toris breathed through a smile._

" _You always do this," Ivan's deep voice rumbled into his neck._

" _Do what?"_

" _Change the subject."_

_Toris sighed. Ivan was right; he would much rather kiss and make up then talk about these issues between them. But in true Russian form, Ivan's approach was confrontational and direct._

_Toris broke free of their embrace, though their arms were still linked. He looked up at Ivan with a steady gaze._

" _I'm sorry if I hurt you. But I serve my people before I serve the Russian Empire."_

_Ivan's brow creased, "Wh—"_

" _And I will take whatever opportunities necessary to become independent. Because that's what my people want."_

" _But…_ you _don't want to be independent? Right?"_

_It took a few moments for Toris to process Ivan's words. He smiled in disbelief. "Ivan—we've talked about this, of course I do."_

" _Right, but you don't really mean that. You just want it because you're going along with what your people want."_

_Toris searched Ivan's expression for any sign of a joke, but it became clear he was being serious. "Ivan," he said slowly. "Try to imagine yourself in my position. Would you sacrifice your sovereignty for love? Have everything you've worked for—the entire nation of Russia—be wiped off the map?"_

_Ivan's face hardened, "I would never let that happen."_

" _And neither would I," Toris explained patiently._

" _But… you did let it happen. And now I'm responsible for you."_

_There was so much wrong with that statement, Toris didn't even know where to begin. He slipped his arms from Ivan's, voice sharp with warning: "I didn't 'let' the partitions happen."_

" _Da, you did. You didn't centralize power enough, so the state grew weak."_

"I _didn't centralize power?" Toris scoffed._

" _…which is why you and your people are much better off under the protection of the tsar."_

 _Toris's jaw dropped. God, he couldn't be serious. "I'm sorry, but if_ my _people could govern themselves, they wouldn't be looted and punished by_ your _officials for fighting for their own freedom in this war!"_

" _But why would they fight for 'freedom' if being a weak state is more dangerous than being part of an Empire? This sounds selfish, Tolya."_

_Toris took a step back and his voice shook, "You think I can't run my own country?"_

" _You don't have the military for it. You'd have to join another alliance, but Poland isn't a country anymore. Who's left? Would Britain care about you as much as I do? Or Prussia, or Austria? How about France, how did he treat your troops just now?"_

_Ivan's words felt like a slap to the face._

" _The French gave us a Provisional Government," Toris snapped. "That's more than you ever—"_

" _I'm not talking about your government!" Ivan cut in. "France openly lied to you. He said he'd give you independence, but it was just a trick to lure your men into his deathtrap. I would never manipulate you like that, because you are so much more to me than just cannon fodder or a piece of land. And that's why it hurts so much, that you think you can excuse your betrayal with 'it wasn't personal.'"_

_It was so much information, so wrong, that Toris had to close his eyes and take several breaths before speaking._

" _Ivan. I've told you many times I wanted to be independent. And you said you would support me."_

 _"Da, when you're_ ready. _It's too dangerous now—"_

" _Then how long?" Toris said, his voice razor-sharp. "How long before you think I'll be 'ready?'"_

_Ivan spread his hands, "I don't know, it took my princes two hundred years to consolidate enough power to defeat the Mongols—"_

" _Two hundred years!?"_

"— _and by then the Mongol Empire had already weakened. These things take time, Toris, you have to be patient."_

_Toris tangled a hand in his bangs. "You thought, that I would live with you for two hundred years."_

_"That's how long you were married to Poland, was it not?"_

_And the fracture that Toris thought split his and Ivan's understanding cracked until it was a thousand kilometers wide._

" _Yes, Ivan. But that was a marriage. We were equals. We lived together as a couple and fought alongside each other during wars. Both of us made political decisions and our people elected their own leaders."_

"We _live together as a couple," Ivan stressed, growing irritated. "And if you hadn't run off to help France then we would be fighting alongside each other, too!"_

_Toris met Ivan's gaze, "You know just as well as I do that on paper, I am your subordinate."_

_Ivan took a breath to argue, but his voice stuck in his throat._

" _We've been pretending, Ivan. Pretending that we're equal, pretending that I have any say in how your Empire is run. I come with you to your palace events and your parties and your banquets, you take me on your business trips and give me stacks of paperwork and people to manage to make myself feel useful—but at the end of the day, I'm just following orders. And I love you, but I can't keep living like this."_

_Ivan's eyes darted across Toris's face as he struggled to understand. "You—you don't want to be with me anymore?"_

" _That's not what I—" Toris sighed in exasperation. "We can still be together as separate countries."_

" _But—then I would only see you a few times a year, at most. Our conversations would just become_ letters, _I—" Ivan swallowed. "These past six months of being away from you were the hardest I've been through in a long time, and it wasn't just the war. I had nobody to talk to, a piece of my life was missing and I felt so alone." Ivan's expression became desperate. "You're telling me you didn't feel the same? That—you_ want _it to be like that, all the time?"_

" _If it means serving my people, then yes."_

_Ivan's hand felt along the back of his desk chair, then he fell into it, staring ahead with wide eyes. Toris was surprised this news had such an effect on him. Did Ivan not understand his duties to his people?_

_Toris sighed and walked over to smooth a hand down the side of Ivan's chair. Watching for any signs of discomfort, he swung a leg over the Russian and sank into his lap. Violet eyes refused to meet his, and Toris's chest ached. He had never meant to hurt Ivan—the responsibility Toris felt towards his people had no effect on how much he loved his partner, and he wanted him to understand that._

_He reached up to tuck silver bangs behind Ivan's ear, then leaned forward to press a light kiss onto chapped lips._

_Ivan didn't move._

_Toris slid his hands down Ivan's chest, now glad he only wore a cotton shirt. He pulled at the fabric until it fell loose from Ivan's pants, then slipped a hand underneath to feel the contour of muscle and wiry chest hair. Ivan's skin burned beneath his fingertips—Toris broke from the kiss and closed his eyes to control the wave of desire that overcame him. It had been a long six months without intimate touch. This war had been stressful for both of them, and he wanted the new tension and space_ gone.

" _I can't."_

_Toris opened his eyes. "What?"_

" _I can't lose you." Ivan's hands slid over Toris's thighs._

_Toris let out a breathy laugh, "What do you mean—"_

" _I can't let you be independent."_

_Toris's smile faded. The Russian's face had hardened into a determined mask, the violet color of his eyes sharpening to an icy, soulless point._

_Toris stood up from the chair so fast, his back hit the desk and papers drifted to the floor. But he couldn't get very far—Ivan had grabbed his wrist._

_"Let me go."_

_Ivan's eyes glinted like those of a predator. "You were kissing me just now."_

" _That was before—" Toris couldn't believe Ivan had just said that; he shouldn't have to explain himself. "Let go, Ivan."_

_But Ivan didn't let go. Instead he stood up and took a step towards Toris._

_Toris stepped back._

" _Come here."_

" _No."_

_Ivan's grip tightened. "Come here."_

" _Ivan you're scaring me."_

" _You don't have to be scared."_

_But he was. Toris had never been in this position before. And the fact that it was Ivan confused him even more._

_With a sharp yank, Ivan pulled Toris's wrist and he stumbled forward. Before he had a chance to catch his balance, strong arms crushed him into a greedy kiss. Toris clawed at Ivan's shirt, he yelled into the Russian's mouth until he managed to break away, panting._

" _Stop! What the hell are you doing!?"_

" _The same thing you were doing just a moment ago."_

 _What!? "No," Toris stressed. "No, Ivan you_ cannot _just say something like that and expect me to—ah!"_

_Ivan's fingers brushed the seam of Toris's pants, and the sensation shot an electric jolt through his body. Toris tried to back away, but Ivan followed him until his back hit the wall. Ivan grabbed his wrist and pinned one arm above Toris's head while the other worked on the buttons, and Ivan kissed him again._

_Everything was wrong. Toris's brain didn't even know how to process it. It was Ivan, but it wasn't. It felt good, but it didn't. He tried to think back, to if Feliks had ever done this. Maybe this was normal…?_

_His pants came undone, and Toris cried out into Ivan's mouth as a rough palm slid below his navel._

_No. No, Feliks had NEVER done this._

_Heat and horror washed over Toris all at once as Ivan's hand began to move. He pulled at the iron grip, twisting his head to try and break free of the kiss. His efforts were enough for Ivan to pull back, Toris's breaths came out in ragged pants that could easily be mistaken for something else but his heart was beating so damn fast because he was_ scared…

" _Ivan, stop," the gasp came out a terrified plea. Even on the battlefield, he had never begged another nation like this._

" _Do you know how I realized I was ready to defeat the Mongol Empire, Tolya?"_

_The sultry calmness in Ivan's voice somehow made it so much worse. Toris gaped at the nation he barely recognized._

_"Wh—what?"_

_Ivan leaned forward, voice lowering to a growl: "When I could fight back, and_ win. _You think you're strong enough to survive on your own? Then prove it."_

_Toris was shocked passed the point of words. This couldn't be real. It was just—_

_Ivan pressed his weight harder onto Toris's wrists._

_Oh,_ god.

" _No, please, Iva—!"_

_His shout of protest was muffled into Ivan's hand as he trapped him against the wall. Two fingers hooked around the hem of his pants to slide them off. The office air was cool against his skin as fabric fell around his ankles. Ivan's knee rose between Toris's legs, forcing them apart._

_In all the centuries of Toris's lifetime, he had never felt so unsafe._

_A jolt of adrenaline gave him a burst of strength; Toris twisted one arm free of Ivan's grip, his hand flew to Ivan's throat and he dug his nails into the pink flesh of Ivan's scars._

_Ivan jerked away with a hiss of pain; his hand left Toris's mouth to pry the fingers off his throat. A babble of hysteria spilled from Toris's lips, probably in Lithuanian but he had no command over language right now:_

" _Ivan, no, stop please, this isn't you, this is just what they taught you—you're drunk, you're not thinking straight—"_

 _But Ivan's eyes narrowed in deadly focus, not drunk at all, Toris's nails drew blood as Ivan raked his hand off his neck and slammed it against the wall. The features of Ivan's face blurred past Toris's tears, god he was_ crying _now, but what else was he supposed to do—_

" _You're too loud," Ivan growled, and clamped a hand over his mouth. Toris sucked in a gasp as Ivan spun him around and pressed his chest to the wall, sparks of heat ignited as Ivan began to touch him, and he didn't know how he could have possibly yearned for intimacy just minutes ago when this was so_ fucked up—

 _Ivan spoke into his ear, the soothing words such a contrast to the sirens screeching through Toris's head, and Toris tried to convince himself the low voice rumbling through his bones was anyone but Ivan, but it_ was _Ivan, and it_ didn't make sense—

" _You would never leave me, da Litva? It's not like you have anyone else. Estonia and Livonia see you as their master. You told me yourself that Poland left you after finding out about us. Not even France has a use for you now._

" _But_ I _taught you to speak my language,_ I _gave you the harder jobs and showed you my capital and my culture… I_ _was your only friend when nobody else wanted you. So you see, Litva? The only person you can ever depend on, is me."_

* * *

Prussia made it sound like a simple decision.

But as Toris's mind replayed the memories over and over in sickening detail, he buried his face into his pillow and mentally screamed that it _wasn't._

It had taken years to recover from the shock, months before he could even show up at Feliks's doorstep in tears to tell his friend what had happened. And once Toris had managed to pick up the pieces of himself enough to function, he had only one goal: _to stay in control._

He grasped at anything he could—uprisings, wars, disobedience, deals—to make sure he was never put in that situation again. If he was fighting, it was because he wanted to. If he was sleeping with Ivan, it was because he _wanted_ to—or at least, that's what he kept telling himself.

Asking Ivan for help with the MGB wasn't a last resort—it was a preemptive strike. Because then Toris could set the terms, and maybe convince himself that he was meeting those terms out of his own free will. It would give Ivan structure, some rules to follow… _anything_ to keep him from making decisions at random. Because that would remove Toris's ability to predict or strategize, and would leave him the same vulnerable, pathetic nation who staggered out of Ivan's office that day to lock himself in a bathroom and cry.

And Toris did _not_ want to be that nation again. He had sworn he wouldn't.

Toris could disguise his obedience to Ivan with all the things Eduard and Prussia had pointed out: He was too ashamed to go to Eduard and Raivis for help, he was afraid of changing the system, he was trying to meet some impossible expectation set by Ivan, or most of all, that every decision he made was a decision to protect his brothers. But strip it down to its raw, instinctual drive, and Toris had one thought on his mind:

_I obey Ivan to protect myself._

And Toris didn’t know if he could let that go.

When anxiety made it difficult to breathe, Toris rose from his bed and dug a palm into the pits of his eyes. It was still dark—the blinking clock on the nightstand told him it was 6:30. A light snore rumbled through the air, and he turned to see a white head of scruffy hair and a pale arm dangling off the edge of Eduard's bed.

Toris couldn't believe he had _cried_ in front of Prussia. His memory of the night before was a blur; he vaguely remembered Prussia handing him a wad of shirt to blow his nose on and saying something meant to comfort, but Toris hadn't been listening anyway. His cheeks were streaked with dried salt, his nose clogged with mucus. Toris bent over and massaged his temples. _I'm really losing it, aren't I._

The walls shook with heavy footsteps coming down the stairs.

Toris jolted to attention.

_Oh… oh no…_

He threw off the covers and staggered to Prussia's bedside, tripping over a pile of shirts. Squinting in the dark, Toris tugged the woolen blanket over the back of Prussia's head. _Please don't wake up,_ he pleaded, deciding an arm dangling from the pillow wasn't much of a giveaway. He barely made it back to the door before the knob rattled with the turn of a key.

The door swung open, and Toris blinked at the dark figure towering over him.

Ivan wore his dress uniform, but this was the only organized aspect about him. Toris nearly gagged at the stench of alcohol that wafted into the room; unkempt bangs stuck to Ivan's face in oily strands.

It took every ounce of Toris's self-control not to slam the door right then.

For a long, terrifying moment, the two nations just stood there. Toris couldn't even bring himself to look at Ivan's face—instead his gaze focused on the line of shimmering medals pinned to the Russian's chest.

A husky whisper broke the silence: "I have to go."

That was not what Toris had expected Ivan to say.

"There's… an emergency meeting…" Ivan's voice broke. "I can't—I can't stay here, I have to go."

 _He's… acting like this is…_ Toris gasped. _A goodbye._

This was his chance. If Toris wanted Ivan's help, he had to act _now._

It would be so easy. All Toris would have to do was smile, reach up and brush those silver bangs from Ivan's forehead. To trace his fingers down the angle of Ivan's jaw, slide his hands up those broad shoulders and rise on his toes until their lips met…

Because it was _Ivan_ who had taught him to manipulate and lie, to lace sinister intentions with breathy smiles and butterfly kisses…

Toris licked his lips.

_You don't have to do that._

Toris clenched his jaw. _Yes, I do._

_No, you don't._

Toris felt like he was being ripped in half. There was nowhere for him to escape to, Ivan was drunk, and Toris was _so fucking scared_ of what would happen if he messed this up…

And then it was Raivis's voice in his head:

_Toris, proszę. Zaufaj nam._

No. _No._ Because if Toris missed this chance, they would get deported, they would end up in the Gulag, it would be his fault—

_You can slave away trying to 'earn' our forgiveness, but you never had to do that because no amount of slaving is going to make us love you any more or less than we already do._

And with a shredding rip of a veil being torn, Toris understood. He may be standing in this dark hallway face-to-face with Ivan Braginsky. But he wasn't alone.

Toris closed his eyes and took a deep breath, burning the image of Eduard and Raivis into the back of his eyelids: the light freckles dotting Raivis's cheeks, the dimples that creased when he smiled, the glint of light in Eduard's glasses and wisdom in those eyes as he gave Toris a reassuring nod. Toris focused on it until the confidence filled him up from his toes, until there wasn't a drop of doubt in his body that he was loved.

He looked Ivan dead in the eye and said,

"Then go."

Ivan stilled. The medals on his uniform clinked, the dark form of his shoulders leaned forward, and the scent of alcohol grew impossibly stronger.

Shivers erupted through Toris's skin, the image of his brothers vanished into black as sirens screamed through his head:

_Shit, oh shit, I fucked up, no, no NO—_

Lips pressed a soft kiss into Toris's forehead.

Then the breath retreated, and Toris stood with his eyes shut as heavy footsteps faded up the staircase. Something rummaged in the foyer, then the whoosh of cold air as the front door opened and slammed shut.

Silence.

Toris squeezed his eyes so tight, heat welled up behind them. He blinked passed the blurred moisture to see his hands shaking.

He looked up sharply, expecting the silhouette of Ivan to be waiting for him in the dark. But the hallway was empty.

Toris glanced down the corridor towards Prussia's room.

Then up the stairs.

He knew he heard the door open and close, but it was impossible, did Ivan….

Did Ivan just _leave…?_

A strangled noise escaped Toris's throat, somewhere between a sob and a laugh. He lifted a hand to his mouth, and warm tears collected on his fingertips. Then he staggered backwards into the wall and slid to the floor.

And Toris craned his neck to look up at the ceiling.

And he smiled.

* * *

Commission by [reyook](https://reyook.tumblr.com/post/188898106005/really-glad-to-draw-the-illustration-for-chessna2)

* * *

HISTORY NOTES

**The French Invasion of Russia**

By 1812, France had conquered almost the entire continent of Europe, with the exception of Great Britain. Napoleon's strategy was to defeat the British Empire by cutting off their trade. He placed a strict embargo on Britain, but Russia openly ignored this and continued to trade. In addition, the trade route to India, Britain's most valuable colony, went through Russia. By invading Russia, Napoleon intended for his army to 1) survive off the land by taking food from local farmers as they had done successfully in previous invasions and 2) reach Moscow and force a quick surrender from Tsar Alexander I. His forces, called the Grand Armée, were substantially larger than Russia's and consisted of so many nationalities that the Russians called it "the army of twelve tongues."

While Napoleon pressed through Russia, his forces faced dire food shortages as the Russians used scorched-earth policy to burn any supplies the French could have used. This was especially poignant when the French reached Moscow. Here they expected to receive Russia's surrender, but instead they arrived at a deserted city, empty of civilians or food. The next day fires began in Moscow, and the ancient city essentially burned to the ground. To the Russians, the French invasion resembled the Mongol invasion of 600 years prior. Surrender was not an option, and they were willing to take on incredible costs. After failures to negotiate a surrender from Tsar Alexander I, Napoleon began his retreat. The Grand Armée's discipline broke down as soldiers deserted, starved, died of disease, and as the Winter set in, froze to death. Each town they came across, they ravaged for food just to survive. By the end of the war, Napoleon's force of an estimated 680,000 soldiers, the biggest army to have ever been assembled at that point, had been obliterated to 22,000. Although Napoleon himself escaped Russia and went on to fight other campaigns, he was never able to recover from these losses. (Source: _1812 Napoleonic Wars in Russia_ , StarMedia documentary)

The victory over the French was a huge source of patriotism and nationalism for Russia in the 19th century. The war became known as "The Patriotic War." Both Tolstoy's _War and Peace,_ as well as Tchaikovsky's _1812 Overture_ commemorated and reflected on the French invasion of Russia.

**Lithuania's Involvement**

Napoleon framed the invasion as a "Polish War" aimed at restoring Polish and Lithuanian autonomy. The Lithuanians saw this as an opportunity to be liberated from Russia, and so they welcomed the Grand Armée when it arrived in Vilnius on June 28th. On July 1st Napoleon decreed the establishment of the Provisional Government of the Grand Duchy of Lithuania. Between July and December, over 20,000 Lithuanians joined the French forces in the invasion. These forces fought all the way to Moscow, and also experienced Napoleon's horrific retreat. When the beaten French army trudged back to Vilnius on December 9, the wounded spread disease throughout the city and thousands died. Desperate for food and shelter, the soldiers resorted to looting, gorging themselves on the street and dying of exposure. Russian General Mikhail Kutuzov arrived in Vilnius on December 12, and Tsar Alexander I arrived on December 22nd. Although the tsar wanted the Lithuanians to be treated well, many of his officers looted and persecuted them, seeing them as traitors to the Empire. Of Lithuania's original forces, only 8,000 remained by the end of the war. Many of these followed Napoleon into Paris and would continue to fight in the 1813-1814 campaigns.

**Vyatka Horse**

Now an endangered breed, Vyatka horses are native to the Urals and were traditionally used to pull Russian troikas, or horse-drawn sleds. They are known for their strength and endurance.

**Baltic Germans**

The Baltic German nobility of what were then the governorates of Livonia, Courland, and Estonia held close ties with the Russian Court, and served in high military positions during the Napoleonic Wars. Later when nationality became much more important to the Russian narrative, the German involvement in the war was glazed over in favor of General Kutuzov, who was an ethnic Russian. The later campaigns of 1813-14, which were mostly German-led, were also largely ignored in Russian history books.

**Mongol Invasion of Russia**

The Mongol Empire waged two invasion campaigns against the princedoms of Rus: the first from 1227-38, and the second from 1239-41. The divided "Russian" princes were no match for the Mongols' superior weaponry, strategy, and mobility. Mass graves have been uncovered from these invasions which have revealed massacres of women and children, many people having been brutally killed with missing limbs, etc. Entire cities were burned, and churches looted during the invasion. Many historians credit Russia's economic backwardness and its struggle to keep up with Europe to the time it spent with its resources and innovators being exploited while under the Mongol Yoke.

**Politics in the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth**

The political system in the Commonwealth was called "Golden Liberty," and it was considered the closest structure to a democracy in Europe at the time. All nobles, regardless of rank or economic status, enjoyed extensive legal rights and privileges. The nobility controlled the parliament, called the Sejm, and the king was elected and could even be vetoed by the nobles. While there were many factors to the Commonwealth's collapse, one argument could be that the less centralized system couldn't sustain constant warfare against its absolutist neighbors—and later partitioners—Austria, Prussia, and Russia.

**How Russia broke out of the Mongol Yoke**

The first Russian victory over Mongol forces was Dmitri Donskoy's legendary battle at Kulikovo in 1380. Moscow princes had been slowly accumulating power and land since the early 1300's. This process continued with the accumulation of tribute, moving the religious center to Moscow, and the defeat of neighboring princes. By the 1400's, the Golden Horde had already broken into smaller, weaker Khanates which Ivan III was able to defeat in the Battle of the Ugra River in 1480. Moscow itself existed prior to 1100, so assuming Ivan was born then, he would have worked for 200 years before gaining any kind of substantial power.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> Toris signed his letter, "The Provisional Grand Duchy of Lithuania." This would have stung, because under the Russian Empire his official title would have been "Lithuania Governorate-General." Also typically he would have signed his letters in Russian, so the use of his own language plus the new title would have made an even bigger statement than the letter itself.  
> Vilnius: In 1812, the Russian name for Vilnius was "Vil'no," probably from the Polish spelling, "Wilno." I see Toris as being sensitive about the name of his capital so I had Ivan come his way by using the Lithuanian spelling in his letter.  
> Eduard's line: "Raivis, how many times have I told you to take a bath after cleaning the stables?" (Eduard told Toris he smelled bad before he made the joke, so it was super awkward)
> 
> This chapter marks the final backstory piece for DITR. I've created a timeline which helps to visualize all 157 years of backstory the story covered. View the timeline [HERE!](https://time.graphics/line/231191) You can click and drag the timeline to move it or use the arrow keys on your keyboard.
> 
> Thanks to Reyook for this commission! They do beautiful artwork of Lithuania and I wanted to include one with the story. (Click the link for higher quality.) Thanks for reading!


	30. Brief — Letter

It took a few moments before Toris emerged from the euphoria.

He felt along the wall and staggered to his feet. His heart raced, but it wasn't out of fear. It seemed he was on the back of a horse galloping through the rye fields, wind tearing through his hair and the earth flying beneath him.

Toris hadn’t felt that way since he had been fighting for independence. He had forgotten what that was like. And he _never_ wanted to go back.

His breath came in ragged pants by the time he reached the door to Prussia's room. Toris rapped on the wood with his knuckles. "Eduard!" he shouted. "Eduard you need to get up!" Toris pressed his ear to the door, frowning when he didn't hear anything on the other side. He twisted the doorknob, but it was locked.

" _Eduard!"_ he shouted, louder, and the door rattled in its hinges as he pounded it with a fist. "Eduard, I know you're tired, but Ivan just left and we need to come up with a plan _right now!"_

Silence.

Toris cursed under his breath; of all the times for Eduard to insist upon sleeping in…!

He took off up the stairs, catching a scratchy groan from the Baltics' room—Prussia must have woken up.

 _I need to get Raivis,_ was Toris's thought as he burst into the kitchen; only a moment later did he remember the gunshots and he froze as he scanned the inky shadows for any sign of blood. His relief upon seeing none sent another jolt of energy through his veins, and Toris bolted towards the living room so fast, he had to skid to a stop in the foyer when the front door flew open.

In a moment of horror, Toris thought it was Ivan. But the figure standing at the door was shorter, with a leaner build and sharp golden eyes.

Toris blinked rapidly. "Adrik?"

The agent met him with an even gaze, then leveled a pistol at Toris's face. "Put on your jacket and shoes, Lithuania. We're going for a drive."

_Oh._

The joy leaked out of Toris like air from a punctured tire.

" _Now,"_ Adrik stressed.

As if of their own accord, Toris's legs carried him into the foyer and he was grabbing a pair of boots and shoving his bare feet inside. They were too big, not just because he wasn't wearing socks, but because they were Ivan's but it was too late now and he forced himself to think straight enough to at least grab the heaviest coat on the rack.

Not that it mattered anyway. The camp guards would strip him of all personal belongings. And then the realization crashed onto him with enough force to push a shuddering gasp through his lips:

_This wouldn't have happened if I had asked Ivan for help._

Toris snatched a hat and scarf from the shelf, shoving the garment over his ears and throwing the scarf around his neck. He was so angry, his eyes stung with heat. Why did he ever think he had the right to be _happy?_

"Hurry up," Adrik snapped, with the quick flick of the pistol to indicate that Toris step out onto the front porch. It was only after the cold gust of morning wind cut into his face and the door slammed shut behind him that Toris realized he may never see his brothers again.

The sky was hidden beneath a thick blanket of cloud cover, and snow glittered in the pale yellow columns of headlights beaming from a black car. Exhaust churned into the air as the engine rumbled. Toris looked around for any sign of Ivan. His heart sank at the sight of tire tracks winding towards the gate of the property.

Rough hands grabbed the nape of Toris's coat, circular ring of the pistol pressed firmly between his shoulder blades. Adrik shoved him into the back seat and slammed the door, then ducked into his own behind the wheel. Ice crunched with the roar of the engine, and Toris's breath fogged up the window as he watched the silhouette of the mansion shrink into what looked like a black and white photograph.

The thought hit him like a punch to the gut:

_I'm being deported._

The worst part was that Toris wasn't even angry with Adrik, or the MGB, or Ivan. He was furious with himself, for having such an easy way out, for looking the answer dead in the eye and telling it no.

What would happen to Eduard and Raivis now?

"Lithuania."

Toris jumped at the sound of his name. Golden eyes flicked up to lock with his in the rearview.

"Are you aware of what occurred last night?"

Toris frowned; what did last night have to do with anything?

Adrik's gaze shifted back to the road. "I am only going to explain this once, so listen carefully."

* * *

In the depths of Gilbert's consciousness, someone was pounding on a door.

It grew louder and louder, drawing him reluctantly out of sleep until the rattling became sharp and clear. Gilbert scowled and buried his head into his pillow.

At last it stopped, then someone shouted in Russian and stormed up the stairs.

Gilbert rolled over to squint at the clock with a moan. What time was—?

_Oh, for Christ's sake._

It seemed crises knew no hours in Russia's mansion.

Gilbert sat up in bed, then stayed there a few moments until the room stopped spinning. He thought he heard a voice coming from upstairs—weird, he didn't recognize it—then the front door slammed shut.

"Lithuania?" Gilbert croaked, in a half-assed attempt to get some answers. Of course there were none; as Lithuania was not in his bed and probably was the cause of the impending crisis which Gilbert should now go investigate.

God, he hated this place.

He threw the sheets aside and made his way up the stairs, relying on the hearing he had perfected in the dungeon to navigate through the dark.

"Lithuania?" Gilbert called again when he reached the kitchen. His voice echoed in the cavernous house, to no answer but the fading rumble of a car engine.

Gilbert shuddered, telling himself it was from the cold and not the fact that being alone in Russia's kitchen was creepy as hell. _Where is he? I could have sworn he came upstairs…_

He remembered Latvia telling him about his previous night with Russia—how he'd ended up on the couch in the living room. Judging by proximity, that was most likely the one past the foyer (That's where Gilbert had helped Eddy clean the windows. What a useless chore.)

The eerie grey light illuminated Gilbert's way out of the kitchen and through the foyer. And sure enough, not only did he find the living room, but the curled up form of Latvia shivering like a leaf beneath a blanket.

He crossed the room and lowered to one knee, reaching to shake the boy's shoulder. "Hey, kid. Wake up, your melodramatic brother is missing."

Latvia shot up with a strangled gasp, so fast that Gilbert jerked his head back to avoid a collision. Fingers clawed at Gilbert's shoulders, a babble of a strange language spilling from the boy's mouth—Gilbert recognized nightmares when he saw them.

"Whoa, whoa kid, slow down, I can't understand you!"

"I—I didn't mean to!" Latvia cried in Russian, and his eyes filled with tears. "I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean—!"

"Didn't mean to what?" Gilbert pressed, in German, and finally Latvia seemed to realize that Gilbert was neither of his brothers.

"I—I-I made Russia mad," he stammered in a whisper, trembling fists curled around the blanket. "I had one chance, _one_ chance to make him listen, and I messed it up, he didn't listen and I—maybe if I had pushed harder, or, I don't know, now he's mad at us and we're going to get deported and I—oh god, this is all my fault, I'm so _so_ sorry—"

And once again, unwanted as they were, the memories of Ludwig came flooding in as Gilbert recalled the young nation dissolving into tears at the tiniest of mistakes, because he wanted _so much_ to prove himself among the ancients… even if his responsibilities were far greater than any boy should have to bear.

"Hey," Gilbert stressed, clapping a firm hand on Latvia's shoulder. "Don't be so hard on yourself. Fuck, I'm just glad you're alive. If Useless hadn't screamed at those gunshots, I would've done it for him."

"But that's just it," Latvia sniffed, digging a fist into his eyes. "If I hadn't disobeyed Russia in front of the MGB, he wouldn't have interrogated me at dinner. And if I hadn't argued with him and ran off to his office, he wouldn't have shot me in the kitchen. And if I had just kept my mouth shut instead of trying to convince him that he's wrong, then—" Latvia sucked in a snotty breath and wailed, "We're going to be arrested and sent to _Siberia!"_

Gilbert didn't even have to think about it—he sat up on his knees and pulled Latvia into a tight hug. The boy didn't seem to find the gesture strange; thin arms wrapped around Gilbert's middle as he pressed his face into his chest and cried.

And Gilbert forgot how to breathe, because this was exactly what he had done with Ludwig.

"Hey," he said, and his voice cracked. Gilbert cleared his throat and tried again, "It's not your fault. Russia's a stubborn asshole—to expect yourself to change his mind would be like trying to walk on the moon."

"But I just wanted to do something _right,"_ Latvia whimpered into his shirt.

A sad smile crossed Gilbert's face—now where had he heard that before?

They stayed that way for a few seconds, Latvia's sobs quieting into hiccups while Gilbert's mind wandered to memories long forgotten. At last the boy pushed away, wiping his eyes with a sleeve as he let out a nervous laugh.

"I guess I did do something right though, huh? Cause I found—" Latvia stopped himself, then his eyes grew wide. "Ak dievs, I almost forgot!"

Gilbert blinked at the sudden change of mood; this kid had way more energy than Ludwig ever did. But he'd barely processed this before Latvia had leapt off the couch, grabbed him by the wrist, and was dragging him out of the living room back towards the staircase.

"Hey, whoa, where are we going?"

A part of Gilbert wanted to break it to Latvia that things were too urgent for whatever this was, but somehow he knew to keep quiet. His confusion only grew when, after stumbling down the staircase, Latvia pulled him to the hall bathroom.

"What the—"

" _Shh,"_ Latvia hissed as he turned the doorknob. He motioned for Gilbert to follow him in, then quietly pulled it shut before flicking on the light. Gilbert squinted at the sudden brightness.

"So… why have you brought me to the bathroom, again?"

"I found something in Russia's office."

It took a few full seconds for Gilbert to wrap his mind around what those words meant.

He could only watch in stunned silence as Latvia lifted the lid off the toilet tank, flipping it over to reveal the white rectangle of an envelope stuck to the underside with medical tape.

"I wanted to show you back when you were all yelling at each other," Latvia explained as he pulled off the tape. "But I was afraid Russia would find it. So I made sure no matter what happened to me, it would still be here."

And then Latvia took a shaky breath, as if about to do something unspeakably important, and held out the envelope to Gilbert.

Gilbert's throat went dry.

"Is that—"

"For you," Latvia encouraged.

Gilbert swallowed. He felt dizzy.

"I-I need to sit down…"

Latvia quickly moved aside so Gilbert could fall onto the toilet seat. His fingers trembled as he took the envelope and flipped it over to look at the address.

And Gilbert pressed a hand to his mouth, because he would recognize that perfect cursive handwriting anywhere.

"'Vertreter der DDR,' did you see it?" Latvia said excitedly. "That means Germany knows you represent the GDR!"

Gilbert's head spun. No, he didn't see it. But his eyes darted to the center, and there it was: the proof he had been searching for, engraved in the swoops and curves of his own brother's handwriting.

Gilbert's voice cracked with astonishment: "Latvia— _you_ found this—?"

"Open it," Latvia whispered, breathless, desperate to know what was written inside.

Only, Gilbert didn't want to know.

This was _Ludwig._ Here, in writing—his brother may as well have been standing in the bathroom doorway, watching Gilbert with those glacier melt eyes. This was the person Gilbert had hurt more than anyone in the entire war—the person Gilbert had dragged headlong into it, only to abandon him in the end. And somehow, seeing Latvia's desperation to be appreciated by his brothers made that reality so much harder to face.

What if Estonia and Lithuania had just scoffed at Latvia's efforts and turned their backs on him? Because that's what Gilbert had done to his little brother.

"Prussia… are you okay?"

Gilbert's fingers tightened around the envelope until it crinkled. "I can't read this."

"Why not?"

The words sounded stupid even as he said them: "What if he hates me?"

But Latvia didn't laugh or make fun of him for thinking that. "I can read it with you, if that would make it easier."

And Gilbert felt pathetic for doing so, but he nodded.

"You have to open it, though," Latvia pressed, as he inched into the space between the toilet and the bathtub so he could read the letter over Gilbert's shoulder.

Gilbert trembled as his fingers hooked beneath the fold of the envelope and tore the paper. He noticed grey flecks drifting to the floor—was that ash? Wait, so Latvia had pulled this from the _fireplace?_ The letter was written on three pages, which Gilbert slowly pulled from the envelope to reveal a perfect trifold. Gilbert smiled; Ludwig did always manage to fold things so damn perfectly…

"Um, Prussia?"

"Ja…"

"You know the writing is _inside_ the letter, right?"

"Sorry," Gilbert stammered, blinking the moisture from his eyes. "It's just… it's like he's _here,_ you know?"

Latvia put an arm around his shoulders, a silent message that whatever was in this letter, it would be okay, because Gilbert was surrounded by people (well maybe two people but it was a hell of a lot better than zero) who would support him no matter what.

Gilbert closed his eyes, took a breath, and opened the pages to read:

_March 25, 1952_

_Dear Bruder,_

_Today was a rare occasion during which all of the Allies attended a meeting in Bonn. I knew the issue at hand must be urgent, but I could have never imagined the topic of our discussion: Reunification. I'm unsure if you are familiar with the stipulations of the Soviets' offer, so I will relay them to you here._

_The Soviet Union proposed that the GDR had lost its value as a satellite state, and that it was necessary to create an all-German government taking the form of a democracy. However, one of the conditions of this "peace" would be for the Allies to withdraw all forces from West Germany. This had two consequences. One: The Allies were not so eager to loosen their grip on my government. And two: It would leave a united Germany completely defenseless and sharing a long border with the well-armed USSR._

_I spoke with my chancellor about this at length; I assure you it was difficult even for me to see logic through the haze of my own desperation. However we established that the USSR was an aggressive power that would not hesitate to roll its tanks over our borders had we been left defenseless. The true intention behind the proposal for reunification then became clear: A temporary trade-off in order to create a situation in which the Soviet Union could gain complete control of East and West Germany._

_I cannot describe the agony with which I agreed to this conclusion. I explored every possible loophole; I pleaded the Allies to propose a counteroffer in which their troops could remain in my territory, perhaps a secret treaty to ensure assistance in the case of Soviet invasion. But they made it clear that open war was not an option, what with the threat of nuclear weapons on both sides. There could be no compromise. Either I accepted the offer and rendered my people defenseless against the Red Army, or refused and sentenced you to captivity._

_I asked everyone to leave the room before I could bring myself to sign the refusal. It was the hardest decision I have ever been forced to make._

_I doubt another opportunity like this will arise again. But I am certain of one thing: I now have confirmation that you are alive. The sinister nature of the offer itself reeks of Russia's cunning; I don't doubt he played a large role in its formation. He knew offering reunification would blind me to reason and cause me to act upon my devotion to you, rather than to my people. Nothing would spur this more than the simple fact that he has been unable to kill you, if that has indeed been his goal._

_The chancellor warned me of this 'hopeful thinking,' claiming the offer may be designed to make it appear as though you are alive. He warned that if I accepted it, I would have risked my own sovereignty only to find that I am alone after all._

_I refuse to believe that._

_I know writing to you is futile on many fronts. It is likely Russia has been intercepting my letters under a blanket censorship. Even if you have been allowed to read them, I imagine Russia has used my refusal as a way to antagonize me and bolster your allegiance to the Soviet Union. The information I am relaying to you in this letter would be considered a high security risk, and would be intercepted immediately._

_So the question remains: Why am I writing to you if I know you will never read these words? My only answer is than I cannot sentence you to decades of captivity without explaining to you why. Even now my chest is heavy with the implications of this decision. If you do not read it, if you hate me, then at least I have tried._

_Of all the things you have taught me over the course of my life, by far the most important of these I learned during the war. And that is this: To stand by my people no matter the cost._

_I watched you walk away from your dreams, your personal desires, your comfort, your status—everything you had worked your entire life to achieve—in order to serve your people. And yes, that included walking away from me. At the time it was unfathomable; I was too blinded by pride to understand that as nations we are called to serve our people before ourselves. Had I understood this, perhaps I would not be soaked with the innocent blood of millions._

_I say all of this to offer one last justification for my refusal: I made this decision knowing you would have done the same thing. Had our positions been reversed, and I the one who would suffer decades of imprisonment for the sake of your people, I know you would have chosen to save them… as a nation should._

_Ever since the war's end I have been doing my best to grow stronger in my understanding of what it means to be a nation. And when I do this, know that I am not looking to Britain or France or even to America as an example._

_I look to you, Gilbert. And I will continue to do so until I can thank you in person._

_Until next time,  
Ludwig_

* * *

At first, Toris had been confused as to why Adrik was telling him about some scheme concocted by the Politburo to "gain control" over West Germany. But this was soon eclipsed by fascination, and his eyes grew wide as Adrik laid out the Soviet government's plan.

"You're saying they _wanted_ reunification?"

"It was the only way," Adrik said. "Stalin knew it was an offer the West Germans could hardly refuse."

Toris remembered Prussia's lament that Germany didn't want to see him. Could this have been the reason?

"Until a few days ago, the MGB had no knowledge that a representative of GDR was being held captive at Russia's estate," Adrik continued. "Apparently only Russia, Comrade Stalin, and a select few Politburo members knew GDR existed. The day I reported our conversation about GDR, the entire agency was thrown into hysterics. Top agents who had slaved over efforts to gain control of West Germany saw another chance to do so—only this time, with a direct attack on the nation representatives themselves. Normally this kind of treatment would violate international law, but the nation representatives all voted to nullify the Nation Treatment Code when they placed GDR under Russia's custody."

Toris averted his gaze at the accusatory tone of Adrik's voice.

"Within a day, top MGB officers drafted a plan to remove GDR from Russia's custody. They would use him as leverage to gain cooperation from the West German government by torturing him and broadcasting it to the federal offices in Bonn. It was all organized behind Russia's back, and Comrade Stalin approved it in less than an hour."

Toris's eyes widened. _No way. That means yesterday…_

"Based off the information you gave me, the agency assumed that Russia—and by default, the Baltic States—would concede GDR to the MGB without issue. However, thanks to your brothers' newfound defiance, our attempt didn't exactly go as planned. We were forced to use… _other_ means."

Toris was confused; Adrik spoke as though the MGB had already made their move.

"Yesterday I left to scout out GDR's room. As the agent who best knew the mansion's layout, it was I who led our team last night for the extraction."

_Extraction?_

"But it seemed Russia was one step ahead of us. Either that, or it was just rotten luck. Because the nation we abducted last night was—"

"Eduard!" Toris gasped, and panic seized him all over again.

"Unfortunately, yes." Adrik glared at the road. "The agency went through great pains to snatch GDR right from under Russia's nose, and now we have the wrong nation. Russia was called to a Kremlin meeting to get him off the premises, and I was ordered to remove you and Latvia. The other agents should be moving in as we speak."

Toris gripped the car door, head spinning with the flood of new information. "And what about Eduard—"

"Estonia has been kept unconscious since his abduction. The MGB is terrified of him having too much evidence against them… although, at this point Russia will find out regardless."

"But if they're worried about evidence, why are you telling me all of this? And didn't you say you were supposed to take Raivis, too?"

"I didn't have time," Adrik growled. "The whole point of vacating the mansion was to remove threats; Latvia hardly fits that category. And as for why I'm telling you…" Golden eyes locked with Toris's in the rearview. "You're going to help me rescue Prussia."

It took a moment for Toris to process those words. "I'm sorry, I don't understand—"

"I have my reasons," Adrik cut him off. "For now let's just say I owe Gilbert Beilschmidt quite a debt."

"You know Pr— _ah!"_ Toris's question was cut short by the screech of tires as the car veered off the road. His body jarred as snow and chunks of ice piled up around the windows, then the car swung sideways and Toris's ribs slammed into the door.

"Switch with me."

Toris gasped, "Wh—"

"Don't get out of the car, or someone might see us."

Adrik leaned between the seats and flipped open a panel in the floor. Toris stilled at the glint of assault rifles stacked at his feet.

"Hurry!" Adrik hissed, sliding over into the passenger seat.

Toris hesitated before stepping over the firearms and climbing forward. He fell into the driver's seat and smoothed trembling fingers up the plastic wheel.

It had been years since he was allowed to drive.

Adrik grunted as he leaned back to take a rifle from the compartment. He looked like the professionally-trained killer he was, gun to his chest and MGB cap throwing a stripe of shadow over his eyes.

"I need you to drive since you can keep going if you get shot. Take this."

Toris glanced down to what the agent was offering him, and his heart stopped.

"It's a Makarov. You've got eight shots, don't waste 'em."

Toris hadn't touched a gun since August of '45.

Because the Soviet government knew _exactly_ how dangerous he was. That's why he wasn't allowed to see Feliks. That's why he was confined to the kitchen, far away from any scrap of government information. That's why he’d been assigned a private, trained, _armed_ escort—to watch Toris's every move, to report any suspicious activity to the authorities. To shoot him the second he stepped out of line.

He was the Soviet Socialist Republic of Lithuania… and the government _feared_ him. It didn't matter how many cattle cars they shipped to Siberia—his partisans had been picking off Soviet officers for almost a decade.

Put a bullet through Adrik's skull, and the young agent would become another faceless name on that list.

Toris's breath steadied as he hovered a hand over the weapon.

He could see his people again.

He could find _Feliks…_

Toris's gaze flicked up, and steely eyes locked onto his from beneath the brim of the MGB cap. He understood the wordless message:

_I trust you. Will you trust me?_

A tense silence stretched between them. Past the rumble of the engine, Toris could hear the agent's trembling breaths.

He took the pistol from Adrik's hand, then placed it in his lap and gripped the steering wheel.

"What's the plan?"

With those three words, the tension broke and an unspoken pact was made. Adrik straightened his cap; the nervous fumbling of a man who had just stared death in the face.

"I'll explain on the way. Get us back on the road before someone spots us."

Toris swallowed, telling himself this plan was crazy, Adrik was crazy, and they were both going to die.

 _Now THIS is more like it,_ Feliks said in the back of Toris's mind, and his lips twitched into a smirk as he threw the car into gear.

The engine roared, tires slipping over ice and crunching through snow as Toris cranked the wheel and sped back onto the road. Yellow headlight beams illuminated the ice, and Toris could make out the mansion's silhouette looming in the distance.

Adrik's voice cut through the road noise:

"The moment I saw GDR, I realized what a mistake I had made in reporting him to the MGB. I decided after the extraction, I would dispose of the other agents and escape with GDR myself. But once we had the wrong nation, that plan was rendered useless."

"You said you owe Prussia a debt," Toris said, keeping his eyes on the road. "How do you know him?"

"I met him once, during the war. It's not every day you see a man with white hair and red eyes." Adrik's gaze hardened. "After seeing GDR up close, I know it was definitely him."

Toris frowned; Adrik had never mentioned the war. He kept forgetting it was recent enough to be fresh in human memory. "How old were you?"

"Twenty-two."

 _Twenty-two? That means Adrik would have been fighting in the Red Army. Why would a Soviet soldier owe so much to a Nazi?_ But Toris could tell the agent was finished giving him backstory.

"Adrik, if you get caught…"

"This is my decision," the agent cut in sharply. "I know I'm throwing away my career, and possibly my life. But that's a risk I am willing to take."

"I understand," Toris said, although he didn't.

_All that sacrifice… for Prussia?_

"The MGB should have the mansion surrounded by now," Adrik continued. "There's a clearing behind a strip of forest, and that's where Estonia is being held. We'll take a back road and sneak up behind them on foot."

"What if they get into the house?"

"That will be a trickier situation. In that case, we'll sweep from the back door. You've defeated Russia in combat before, right?"

"Yes," Toris said, and the answer surprised him. _Thirty years ago, actually._ How times had changed…

"We should have little problems, then. But we can't give them the opportunity to use Estonia for leverage. He won't die from a bullet to the head, but that won't stop them from pulling the trigger."

Toris's hands tightened around the steering wheel. "Right."

A loud clap echoed across the grey sky like a burst of fireworks.

Adrik cursed, "That's coming from the front yard."

Toris narrowed his eyes, and with the screech of tires on ice, he slammed his foot on the pedal.

* * *

The sheets of paper trembled in Gilbert's fingers, Ludwig's handwriting blurring into an inky wash. He pressed a hand to his mouth, shoulders lurching as he took in silent gasps for breath.

Latvia pulled Gilbert into a hug. "I told you he still needed you."

Gilbert shook his head, even as splotches of tears fell onto the toilet seat. "But I'm not… someone who should be looked up to."

Latvia pulled back with a startled gaze. "Are you kidding me? Prussia, why do you think I was able to get this letter in the first place? Why do you think I could even look Russia in the face last night without running away screaming?"

Gilbert straightened, then turned to stare at Latvia in amazement.

"Because _you_ believed that I could do those things. I've only known you for two days, and already my life is way better than it was before I met you."

Gilbert swallowed.

"Now just imagine how much good you've done for Germany—how many things he's been able to accomplish, because of _you_. You've shaped his entire life, Prussia. So why do you think he would stop looking up to you now?"

There were so many answers to that question, and they all came flooding in at once: _Because I led him down the wrong path. Because I left him when he needed me the most. Because I never knew how to be a big brother in the first place and was just winging it the whole time._

But deep down, Gilbert knew those were all silly excuses. Of course Ludwig wouldn't leave him. He let out a long, shuddery sigh, and the paper drifted to the floor as he buried his head in his hands.

"I remember." Gilbert closed his eyes. "The last thing I said to Luddy at that stupid conference. I told him to walk out of that meeting room with his head held high. He was— _so_ scared, and I didn't want him to keep on living his life like that. So I made him promise to stay strong—to keep looking ahead even on the days he felt crushed with guilt for what we did."

Gilbert laughed. "And, here is, doing just that. Looking to his future, caring for his people—the damn kid is doing exactly what I told him…" Tears welled up in Gilbert's eyes and his voice broke off.

"When we first met two days ago, you told me you weren't afraid of anything."

Gilbert let out a breathy chuckle. He had never been so scared in his damn life.

"But I know that's a lie. So what are you afraid of?"

"Of messing it up again."

"What, being a big brother?"

"No." Gilbert sniffed. "Being a nation."

Latvia fell silent.

And Gilbert didn't know what else to do, so he kept talking.

"I let… _so_ many people die… and I can go through each day pretending it doesn't bother me—that I don't still hear their voices, or feel their pain, or see them begging me to save them—but that won't make them go away. And I know I've been saying I wanted to know who I represent this whole damn time, but…" Gilbert took a shaky breath. "Part of me just wishes Ludwig hadn't put my title on that envelope."

When he was met with no answer, Gilbert looked up to see Latvia's eyes shimmering with hurt. Gilbert laughed again, smearing away his tears. "That's probably not what you wanted me to say, huh?"

When Latvia's gaze fell to the floor, Gilbert twisted around and pulled the boy into a tight hug. He ignored the sharp gasp of surprise, not caring if this made Latvia feel like a kid.

"Thank you," he whispered, voice shaking with the importance of his words. That was another thing Gilbert had failed to do as a big brother: Tell Ludwig when he had done a good job.

Just then something else occurred to him, and Gilbert pulled back. "Wait—you said you wanted to show this letter to everyone?"

Latvia nodded.

"But… why didn't you? The whole point of stealing it was to prove yourself to your brothers—"

Latvia smirked, "A grouchy old man once told me, that if you live your life trying to impress your brothers, you'll end up fucking up even worse than they did."

Gilbert stared at Latvia—caramel curls matted from sleeping on the couch, bloody bandage pushed up too high over his forehead, violet eyes rimmed red from crying and probably a light hangover. Gilbert tried to wrap his head around how much the little nation had done for him.

Latvia didn't even know Gilbert had rescued the Jews; as far as he knew, Gilbert had slaughtered his people. And just when Gilbert thought the Baltics couldn't surprise him anymore, Latvia gave up his chance to impress his _brothers_ —a decision Gilbert doubted even Ludwig would have been able to make—just so he could read this letter.

A slow smile spread across Gilbert's face. "I'm really proud of you, kid. And you know I don't just say that to anyone."

Latvia seemed to grow taller, eyes shimmering with an awe Gilbert had seen in Ludwig on the rare occasions he was praised. "I know."

Gilbert sniffed and rubbed his nose with the back of his sleeve. _This place is turning me into a pansy,_ he scoffed to himself, as yanked off a strip of toilet paper to loudly blow his nose.

Latvia opened a cabinet door and handed Gilbert a stack of tissues.

"Thanks," Gilbert muttered, using one to dab the tears from his eyes. He decided it was time to change the subject.

"Speaking of brothers who fuck up… where's Lithuania?"

Latvia's face fell at the question. "What?"

Gilbert tossed the crumpled tissue into the trash. "I couldn't find him this morning. I woke up to someone pounding on a door and shouting Eddy's name, and I think Lithuania ran upstairs and left the house."

" _What!?"_

Latvia bolted out of the bathroom and into the hall. Gilbert stood and picked the letter off the floor, following behind to see Latvia flick on the bedroom light.

"Toris?"

No answer.

Latvia shot across the hall, banging on Gilbert's door: "Eduard!? _Eduard!"_ He wrenched the doorknob, and a slew of Latvian curses flew from his mouth. "This door doesn't lock from the inside."

Gilbert frowned. "What?"

"Our doors _don't_ lock from the inside. Someone has deadbolted this."

The two nations' eyes grew wide as they came to the same conclusion.

"Does Russia drive a car?" Gilbert asked.

"Yeah, it's usually parked in the driveway."

A shared glance, and they bounded up the stairs and across the kitchen. Latvia yanked back the lace curtains, cupping his hands around the window.

"Russia's car isn't there. And there are tire tracks…" He pulled away, raking his fingers through sweaty curls. "Ohhh my god. It's happening, it's really happening… "

"Why did Lithuania leave?"

"Toris didn't _leave,_ don't you get it!? Russia took him and Eduard to the prison!"

"Then what the hell are _we_ still doing here?"

"I don't know! Maybe because Russia doesn't care what happens to you, and I'm the one he's most angry at right now? Plus Eduard and Toris are the ones who have been plotting this thing, so they're going to be interrogated, but we're—" Latvia's voice broke and he swallowed before whispering, "We're going straight to the Gulag."

Gilbert's eyes narrowed at the dark line of trees flanking Russia's property. "Not if I have anything to say about it."

"What?"

"Those bastards are probably hiding in the forest waiting for us to come out. Do you know where Russia keeps his firearms?"

"Yeah, in his room. Are you saying we wait it out and ambush them?"

"No," Gilbert muttered, eyes falling to the tire tracks marring the driveway. "I was thinking more along the lines of the element of _surprise."_

"What do you mean?"

"Does Russia have a second car? One he doesn't use every day, like parked in the garage or something?"

Latvia's eyes widened. "Actually, he does. But we'd be dead if we even breathed on it."

Gilbert's lips twisted into a wicked grin.

"I hope you know where he keeps his keys, kid. Cause you're gonna drive."

* * *

HISTORY NOTES

**Stalin Note**

The Stalin Note, the document Ivan gave to Gilbert in ch. 21, is exactly as Adrik described it here. The USSR’s conditions of Germany's unification included withdrawing all Allied forces from the FRG. Both the Allies and the FRG felt this was too dangerous, and a move of Soviet aggression in an attempt to gain control of the entire German territory. Three more notes were sent after the initial offer—one in April, May, and August. All offers were rejected. Even today, it's debated whether a real chance at reunification was missed in 1952.


	31. Päästmine — Rescue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Weapons:
> 
> AK-47:  
> Also known as the Kalishnikov, the AK is an assault rifle, meaning it has automatic or rapid-fire function. It's loaded with curved magazines or "clips" which are quickly fastened to the bottom of the barrel. It has 30 rounds per clip. Set to fully automatic, it can fire 600 rounds per minute, but most shooters fire in bursts of six. It has a range of 350 meters and is fairly lightweight and accurate.
> 
> Makarov pistol:  
> This was the standard issue sidearm for the MGB. It's loaded with a detachable magazine box in the handle, and has 8 rounds. With a range of 50 meters, it's accurate at short range if the shooter is steady and has good visibility.
> 
> Mosin-Nagant rifle:  
> This is a sniper rifle used by the Red Army in WWII. It is bolt-action, which means after each shot the shooter has to eject the empty bullet casing with a handle on the barrel. It has 5 rounds which are loaded individually, and a range of over 800 meters with a scope. Sniper rounds (bullets) are large and intended to kill with one shot. The barrels are long and they are heavier to carry.
> 
> As the name would suggest, AK-47's were not invented until 1947. This means Gilbert has never seen one. However they were largely modeled after the German MP40 which was used in WWII, so with a quick tutorial from Raivis, Gilbert could figure it out (in his POV he'll call AKs "a rifle" since he won't remember the proper name for it.) The Lithuanian partisans, who Toris fought with in 1944, also would have used MP40's and it's likely Ivan would have taken the Baltics to a firing range to show off the newly-invented AK.
> 
> Mosins were used in the Russian Empire during WWI, so Raivis would have trained with them during his time with the Latvian Riflemen and it's the same gun he used to try to assassinate Arājs in 1941.
> 
> You can tell a gun is out of ammo when it clicks instead of shoots.
> 
> A special thanks goes out to my dad who is a retired U.S. Army ranger/paratrooper and helped me plan this scene. I recommend listening to action background music for this chapter. Enjoy.

Gilbert hadn't planned an escape operation in seven years.

But his memory had been playing out scenarios since the war, and dangerous escapes felt as natural as breathing to him. This time he only needed to rescue one nation—not dozens of emaciated humans—and Latvia couldn't die.

(Gilbert hated it when escapees got killed on the way out, or in transfer. Made the whole thing seem pointless…)

But that wasn't a concern this time, and so Gilbert felt optimistic as he instructed Latvia on which weapons to bring, where to put the money (Latvia was the one who had suggested bringing a wad of rubles for bribes) and how much food. Gilbert almost forgot to add a map and compass to the list—navigating through a foreign country would prove to be a challenge, but Latvia had lived in Russia long enough to know the main roads. Even better, the kid spoke the language without an accent.

Latvia seemed to sense Gilbert spoke from experience, as his usual nervous demeanor was replaced with forced enthusiasm.

"Wear two pairs of socks; that way if your first pair gets wet you can switch 'em."

"Two pairs of socks, got it!"

And _damn_ if everything Latvia did didn't remind him of Ludwig. As if the letter wasn't enough, now this walking talking incarnation of his little brother was rushing up and down the mansion collecting supplies.

To save on time, Gilbert left Latvia to the food stuffs while he carried the guns to the garage. Lucky for them it was attached to the house, and he fiddled with the lock and swung it open to breathe in the scent of dust and gasoline. He clicked his tongue, easily finding the light switch and illuminating the garage with a dim yellow glow.

Russia's garage was surprisingly organized, old Soviet junk from the war piled into one corner, with a tool bench at the back. Two motorcycles were parked by the far wall—one Gilbert recognized from the war, the other a new model—and in the center stood the outline of a car covered in thick canvass.

Even from the outline, Gilbert could tell it wasn't Soviet.

He squatted to the floor, running his hands beneath the tires until he pulled the cover out. He worked it upwards, letting out a low whistle as he threw the fabric over the hood.

By the time the Americans had their jeeps crawling all over Europe, Gilbert had already abandoned the Nazis and couldn't care less if the kid's auto industry was kicking their asses. But now that the war was over, it seemed the Americans were back to designing cars for style.

It was a convertible—forest green with a wide hood and swooping fenders that capped the back wheels. Every inch of the car shone with polish, and it was obvious it had barely been used.

After pulling off the cover, Gilbert tossed it to the floor. He placed the guns in the seats just as the garage door opened behind him.

"It's a 1949 Aston Martin db1. Pretty nice, huh?" Latvia's voice echoed in the cement walls.

"Sure, if you want the entire Soviet Union to know where we are. This has to be the most un-communist thing I've ever seen."

"Russia likes cars," Latvia shrugged as he handed Gilbert a bag of supplies. "He said America owed him after the war, so this was his thank you gift. I don't think he even drives it."

"Yeah, well, we're about to break that streak. Can you lower the hood?"

For the first time, Latvia allowed nervousness to show on his face. "Isn't that dangerous?"

"I need to jump in this thing while it's moving, kid, I'm not that good. Remember what I said—"

"Keep driving."

Gilbert clapped Latvia on the shoulder. "No matter _what."_

The anxious determination in Latvia's eyes was an expression Gilbert recognized from Ludwig's early battles. This was a lot to throw on the kid at once, but one look and he knew Latvia would be fine. Gilbert held out the car keys with a sly smile.

"She's all yours."

Latvia let out a slow breath, puffing out his cheeks. Then with a quick motion, he snatched up the keys and walked around the car to duck into the driver's seat. As Gilbert strode to the garage door, he heard the amazed whisper:

_"Kolosāli."_

It seemed Russia wasn't the only one who liked cars.

Gilbert bent down to grip the metal handle. "You ready?"

His answer was the sputter of an engine and the high-pitched hum of the convertible hood lowering. Latvia flipped a switch, and the garage lit up with the high beams of headlights.

"Come on, come on," Gilbert muttered, watching the hood in what felt like slow motion.

"NOW!"

With a loud bellow, Gilbert heaved the garage door open, cool air rushing in from outside. The metal clacked and echoed, and with the roar of the car engine it shot backwards into the driveway. Latvia cranked the wheel to the left, then slammed the gas and the tires threw out a spray of snow as it veered towards the garage.

Gilbert backed up, "Okay, okay…"

In a burst of speed he sprinted outside, cold wind biting into his skin. With a shout, Gilbert leapt off the ground as the car spun towards him, he put a hand out to rest on the window, and just as the hood clicked into place he fell into the passenger seat.

"Go, go, GO!"

Gilbert picked up the rifle as the bullets started flying.

Latvia yelped, the car swerved just as Gilbert had instructed to avoid fire. Gilbert pointed the rifle towards the trees and let fly. He was briefly shocked at the incredible speed of fire; when Latvia had said these guns were Russian-made he'd been skeptical but _this…_

Bullets pinged against the car; a scream rang out as Gilbert met his mark. "They're coming from the right!" he shouted over the noise. "Veer left at the road!"

The car jolted with a loud explosion.

"Shit!" Gilbert ducked as glass shattered, scattering shards across the back of his head.

"What was that!?"

"They blew out a tire!"

The car had considerably slowed, Gilbert's body jarred against the leather seat. He let out a snarl, raising his head to fire another volley into the trees. By now the agents had come out into the open, and if this car wasn't jolting so damn much he might actually be able to hit one—

_BOOM!_

With a crunch of snow the car swerved to the right.

"GO LEFT, GO LEFT!"

"They got the front tire!"

" _Shit—"_

The car veered off the driveway, slamming into a wall of snow. Chunks burst into cold powder on Gilbert's back. He let go of the rifle to catch his balance, and with a rattle it bounced out of the seat and clattered off the edge of the window. Latvia slammed the pedal, but the two remaining wheels spun on the ice.

"Get behind the car!" Gilbert shouted, scrambling to climb over the trunk and fall hard into the snow as bullets whizzed overhead. There was a strangled yell, then an 'oof' as Latvia tumbled to the ground next to him. Their breaths came in hot pants over the pepper of bullets drilling into the car's flank.

"You got a gun?"

"Just a pistol," Latvia panted, pushing himself out of the snow.

Gilbert leaned his head back on the door. "Fuck."

"You don't?" Latvia asked, fear flickering across his face.

"Lost it when the car crashed. All I've got is a sidearm with shit range."

"So what do we do?"

"They'll try to surround us. We pick them off as they get too close."

The worried look on Latvia's face confirmed what Gilbert already knew: it was a shit plan. They were outnumbered, and without good range it would be impossible to pick off the agents fast enough.

Gilbert slid his pistol out of its holster and risked peeking over the top of the car. Already agents were moving towards them; he could hear their shouts in Russian over the gunfire.

Things didn't look good.

"Uh… Prussia?"

"Yeah," Gilbert grunted as he fired rapid shots into nowhere.

"There's a car coming."

And sure enough, amid the shrieks of bullets, he heard the roar of an engine. Gilbert glanced to the road to see a black car speeding towards them; it was already nearing the gate. A smile flickered across his face; these agents were dumber than they looked.

"Prussia…" Latvia said nervously.

Gilbert ducked back down, dumping an empty magazine to reload his pistol.

"That's our new ride."

"What!?"

"Get behind me, this could get messy. I'll shoot whoever is dumb enough to jump out first; you take out the driver."

"Take—"

"In the _head,_ Latvia, we gotta get out of here and this is our only chance."

Latvia's face hardened with a nod and he scrambled behind Gilbert. Gilbert crouched on one knee as the sound of the engine grew closer. The bullets paused; the agents' shouts were drowned out by the car as snow sprayed and it screeched to a stop behind them on the driveway.

The door burst open and Gilbert tightened his finger around the trigger—

" _Preussen!"_

A sixth sense in his body flashed awake. Gilbert took a gasp for air and for the first time felt the oxygen coming from someone else's lungs, not his own. A flood of information—a name, a face, a history, blood and heart pumping that crossed the space between them and punched him in the chest.

The pistol shook as he stared wide-eyed at the man he had intended to shoot.

"Wait, _Toris_ is the driver!"

Gilbert barely registered Latvia's gasp; he was too busy processing the information, it was only one person, so why did it feel like _so much…_

He lowered the pistol, and the man's face blurred as heat stung Gilbert's eyes.

"Comrade Shkarov!?" Latvia cried in Russian. "What's going on, why are you with Toris?"

"I'll explain later, but you two need to get in the car, before—"

Bullets picked up again, this time pinging against the black car. With a shot of adrenaline, Gilbert grabbed Latvia by the arm and shielded him as he fired at the agents. Latvia dove in, Gilbert slammed the door behind them and the car backed into the snow before speeding down the driveway and onto the road.

The man met Gilbert with a stern gaze and held out a gloved hand. "It's an honor to finally meet you, Preussen. I'm Diedrich Shkarov."

Gilbert gave him a firm handshake as he said,

"I know."

* * *

Toris asked himself how on earth he had gotten into this position.

Somehow he was driving a government car in the dark through the snow, and had just picked up his little brother and Prussia _who had driven Ivan's convertible into open fire,_ while his MGB escort shouted a lightning-speed explanation over the road noise:

"The MGB kidnapped Estonia and he's being held in a truck in the woods. Russia's not here, we're going to rescue Estonia. How are you on weapons?"

Prussia was quick to answer: "We each got a pistol and a dagger."

Toris paled as he glanced in the rearview to see Adrik hand Prussia not one but _two_ AK-47's. "One's for Lithuania, give it to him when we jump out of the car."

_Wait, what?_

A belt: "Grenades; throw two when the car stops to draw the guards away from the truck. There's a big tree with a boulder you can use for cover; you and Lithuania hold them while Latvia and I sneak around the back." A backpack: "Clips for reloading, and a dagger and holster for Lithuania."

As Prussia clipped on the grenade belt, Adrik handed Raivis—Toris nearly choked—a _sniper rifle._

"Latvia, you and I sneak through the trees until we get to the truck. There will be a few guards left; I'll cover while you get in a good line of sight. Snipe 'em, we get Estonia out, then grenade the truck. That's the signal for Prussia and Lithuania to get back to the car."

"Who drives?" Raivis asked, shouldering the rifle.

"Whoever's not wounded. Lithuania, go right up to those trees—"

The car jolted as Toris cranked the wheel and they veered off-road.

"Any questions?" Adrik shouted, though there was clearly no time to answer them.

The headlight beams lit up tree trunks, Toris slammed the breaks and the car skidded to a stop. The back doors opened as everyone clambered out; Toris wrenched open the driver door and staggered around to catch Raivis on the shoulder.

"Raivis," he gasped, breath condensing into yellow fog.

The boy froze, hands gripped tightly around the rifle.

"I want you to stay."

Raivis's brows creased as he breathed, "What?"

The headlights flicked off, plunging them into darkness.

"You can wait here by the car; be ready when we get back—"

"No!"

"Raivis, _please—"_ Toris squeezed the boy's shoulder. "You almost got shot last night, and if something happens to you now—"

Raivis gripped his arm and shot him a look of determination. "I can do this."

"But—"

"I can _do_ this, Toris. Eduard needs our help."

Toris glanced up to see Adrik waiting. He took a shaky breath then pulled Raivis into a tight hug and whispered,

"Bring our brother back."

Raivis broke away, and Toris watched as he and Adrik darted towards the trees.

_Plink!_

Toris's eyes widened as he recognized the sound, then wheeled around just in time to see Prussia hurl something towards the trees.

_BOOM!_

The ground shook, a yellow and orange flare lit up the night.

_Plink!_

Prussia grabbed Toris by the arm and started running. Toris staggered after him, nearly losing his footing as the ground shook with another explosion.

"Wait—slow down!"

"Shut up and run, I can see in the dark."

"Well _I_ can't!"

The ground rushed beneath him, Toris straining to make out the outline of rocks and twigs amid the snow. His breath came in harsh pants as Prussia dragged him to a large outcropping of rock twisting with tree roots. Prussia threw the backpack on the ground, then spun around to open fire.

The deafening popping blasts ricocheted in Toris's skull; he winced as memories pulled him back to the battlefield.

Prussia ducked down and shrugged off the second AK.

"Suit up," he hissed, handing Toris a holster and pulling a dagger from his boot. Toris took the weapons and Prussia leaned around again to fire.

Toris shoved the knife in his boots, hands shaking as he clipped on the holster and fit his pistol inside. He shouldered his own AK and crouched on one knee so the barrel peered through the roots. He could make out the shadows of movement far off. Toris breathed out, then pulled the trigger and let fly.

The kickback surprised him enough to gasp; Toris tightened his grip on the gun and spread his knees to get better balance. The rapid _POP-POP-POP_ drilled into his ears, and cries of pain echoed across the forest.

Toris and Prussia fell back shoulder-to-shoulder as bullets whizzed through tree bark and skipped against leaves.

"All we gotta do is draw their fire," Prussia panted. "The more noise we make, the safer Latvia will be." He pointed to the left. "There's a tree that way, big enough for both of us. After a few minutes, I'll spray covering fire and you crawl your ass to that tree. Then you cover fire and I'll follow, got it?"

"They can't see us," Toris realized.

"Exactly. Dipshits are pissing their pants trying to figure out where we are. And I don't mean to brag, but—" Prussia propped the AK to his shoulder. "I'd rather them find us than the other two."

Toris's finger steadied on the trigger as he squinted through the roots. "Just make some noise," he whispered.

"Make _hell."_

* * *

Despite the snow, Raivis felt as though he were groping through the dark.

He and Shkarov darted quickly through the trees, unless they heard movement and the agent motioned for Raivis to take cover. He froze, hearing nothing but the pounding of his pulse and the close echo of gunfire. Shouts and the distant clatter of equipment rang out as the agents ran towards the noise.

Shkarov signaled for them to continue, and snow crunched underfoot as they moved deeper into the forest. A minute later Shkarov put a finger to his lips, then motioned for Raivis to get down behind an outcropping of rock. He pointed, and Raivis leaned forward and squinted into the distance. He could make out the outline of a truck in a small clearing through the trees.

Raivis crouched into the snow, looping the rifle off his back and resting it on the ground. He lay on his stomach, snow packing beneath the fabric of his woolen jacket as he brought the rifle to his shoulder.

_When you're ready, signal me and I'll fire a flare. There's a creek bed behind the truck; the guards will be hiding on the slope. When the flare goes off, they'll look up and that's when you shoot. If you see a head without a hat, that's Estonia._

Raivis strained his eyes to try and make out anyone in the dark, but as far as he could see, the clearing was empty. It was just as he'd feared—the guards had taken cover and it would be impossible to see them without a flare. He wouldn't have much time to aim, let alone discern if the head in his scope was Eduard's.

Raivis repositioned in the snow, shifting the barrel to aim at a darker shadow that marked the creek bed. The trigger was smooth through the leather of his glove.

He gave a thumbs-up.

_Rrrrriiiippppp_

A blinding white light threw sharp shadows across the forest floor, but Raivis kept his scope on the creek.

_Come on, where are you…_

Two dark figures rose against the flickering white backdrop of snow. Raivis lined one up in the scope, then fired.

The shot shrieked across the forest, the bolt-action clacked as Raivis ejected the empty casing. He searched for his second target—lock, fire.

His breath trembled against the wood of the rifle.

_Did I do it?_

"Good work. Let's get Estonia."

Raivis felt lightheaded as Shkarov led the cautious trip towards the truck, another series of stops and signals. After a final scan, the agent nodded and the two sprinted into the clearing.

Raivis ran to the edge of the creek bed, sliding down the ice-slicked rocks. He gasped at the sight of two mangled figures sprawled across the slope. Raivis stumbled forward, snow and something else squelched beneath his boots as he approached a still figure lying between the two dead men.

"Eduard!" he gasped, tripping over an arm to reach his brother. Eduard's hands and legs were bound, a gag tied around his mouth. Raivis was horrified to realize the Estonian wore nothing but his pajamas; a human would have gone into hypothermia by now.

"Are you hurt?"

Eduard groaned in reply.

"You can catch up later," Shkarov said roughly, coming up from behind. He knelt down and drew a knife from his boot. "He's too drugged to walk; I'll carry him back and you cover. Take my AK."

He shrugged it off and handed it to Raivis, and the sawing of a knife against ropes filled the silence. Raivis pulled out his own dagger and started to work at Eduard's binds. He jumped when a strangled groan came from the darkness:

"Damn you, Shkarov…"

Raivis froze. The man's voice gargled with blood.

"Fucking _traitor_ … you'd orphan my daughter for these freaks…"

The knife shook in Raivis's hand.

"Move," Shkarov ordered, shoving Raivis aside as he slashed the gag off Eduard's mouth. Eduard sucked in a gasp, he struggled but seemed unable to move. Raivis stepped back, scanning for any approaching agents and forcing himself not to look at the two sprawled at his feet.

After a grunt and some heaving, Shkarov rose with Eduard slung over his shoulder. Raivis clambered up the slope, then pulled the agent up before they sprinted out of the clearing. Shkarov paused before they entered the trees.

_Plink!_

"Run!" the agent shouted, and Raivis took off, sniper rifle banging against his side as rocks and twigs flew beneath his feet.

_BOOM!_

Smoke, fire, and gasoline lit up the night sky in an orange pillar that reflected off the snow. With a jolt of adrenaline Raivis broke into a sprint; he remembered the way they came; the sound of nearby gunfire grew louder, they were almost to the car—

_"Latvia!"_

The shout was broken with the exploding pop of gunfire and a cry of pain; Raivis spun around and realized he had run too far ahead. He darted behind a tree, raising the AK as he frantically searched for the source. He didn't even know which _direction—_

There, a figure, Raivis aimed and sprayed fire, vaguely aware of Shkarov crawling up behind him.

" _Shit,"_ the agent hissed, rolling Eduard off his shoulder and leaning him against the tree. "Bastard grazed my arm. Latvia, give Estonia your pistol, I'll take the Mosin."

"But there's only three rounds left!"

"Then I'll make them count."

Raivis fumbled with the guns, handing Shkarov the rifle. The agent took it, then fired into the woods with his Makarov. Raivis took his own pistol out of its holster and pressed it to Eduard's hand.

"This way," Shkarov ordered, jerking his head to the left. "Estonia, _don't move."_

"We're leaving him!?"

"Only until we get this guy off our tail."

Raivis threw a nervous glance to Eduard. Deciding he didn't have a choice, he got down on one knee and sprayed covering fire while Shkarov crawled through the snow a few trees down. The agent leapt up, firing again with his pistol as Raivis half-crawled, half-ran to the nearest tree. Bullets flew too close for comfort, whizzing overhead as chunks of wood splintered off the tree trunks.

One he reached cover, Raivis rose on his knees and fired in the direction of the bullets. He leaned back against the tree trunk, chest heaving as he realized he didn't have much ammo left.

_BANG!_

A single heavy shot shrieked across the forest, there was a strangled yelp and a thud.

"Got him!" Shkarov hissed.

This time Raivis could see a dark stain streaking down the agent's arm as he ran towards him. Raivis made a quick sweep with his gun before darting back to where they had left Eduard.

Only… Eduard wasn't there.

"This is the wrong tree," Shkarov panted.

Raivis's eyes widened as he stared at the sloppy tracks winding through the snow.

"No," he whispered, pointing through the forest. "Someone took him."

* * *

Things were going surprisingly well.

In a matter of minutes, Toris and Prussia had their strategy down to a well-oiled machine. While one ducked, the other fired. If one ran out of ammo, all it took was a quick reload from the backpack set between them, and they were back in swing again. Even the sprint to another location worked perfectly, and they hadn't stopped shooting for more than a few seconds at a time.

As Toris spewed bullets into the trees, something clinked to the ground and rolled between them. At first he thought it was a rock until—

"GRENADE!" Prussia shrieked, and Toris ran for his life.

He dove to the ground, straightening his legs and clamping his hands over his ears. The earth rose up beneath him; shrapnel whistled by and splintered the tree trunks, dirt and snow showered onto his back.

Toris spat mud out of his mouth; a high-pitched ringing screeched through his ears. His body shook from the shock but he forced himself to get up; if he didn't find cover he would make an easy target. The forest floor pitched beneath him as he staggered to a thick pine. Toris squeezed his eyes shut and dusted the dirt from his hair.

The ground trembled with another explosion—much louder than any grenade—and Toris peered around the tree to see orange smoke billowing up into the sky.

_They blew up the truck. That's the signal._

Except Toris was supposed to be heading back with Prussia. And he had no idea where Prussia was.

As if on cue, the short blasts of a pistol echoed close by. Toris tensed; if Prussia was using his pistol it meant he was in trouble. Pausing to listen for any sign of fire, Toris gripped his AK as he headed—

A high-pitched whistle, then something knocked Toris back against the tree trunk.

He couldn't breathe. The mere force of the thing felt like a punch to his entire body; Toris sucked in strangled gulps for air as his legs gave out and his back slid against the bark. A pain, like searing hot fire, and the singe of fabric and burning flesh.

Dark liquid soaked into his jacket and started pooling into the snow. Toris grit his teeth and let out a strangled moan. He pressed a hand to his side, glancing up to see the figure of an agent drawing near. Toris scrambled for his AK, wood slipping in his bloodied hands as he pointed it to the agent.

_Click._

"No," Toris moaned, trying again.

_Click, click._

He reached for his pistol, knowing it was too late, the agent aimed straight at him—

_BANG! BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG!_

As if in slow motion, the silhouette fell to his knees, then keeled over with the clatter of a gun into the snow. Toris stared dumbfounded at the spot where the agent had just stood.

There was a strangled cry; Toris recognized that voice. He looked past the agent to watch someone collapse to the forest floor. "Eduard?" Toris called, the name breaking into a moan as he pressed a hand to his bleeding wound.

_How did he…?_

There was no time to think of that now. He ripped the scarf from his neck, compacting it into a wad and pressing it to his bleeding side. He abandoned the AK—it was dead weight anyway—and began the agonizing crawl in Eduard's direction.

Toris breathed hot through his teeth as tendrils of pain shot up his torso. A twig snapped, the figure of Eduard struggled to sit up—

" _Eduard!"_

Toris dropped the scarf and yanked the pistol from its holster, firing rapid shots in the direction of the noise. There was a curse in Russian, then crunching footsteps as the agent ran away.

"Dammit," Toris grunted, then with a cry of pain he scrambled to Eduard's side, hooking his arms and dragging him through the snow and behind an uprooted tree. Toris collapsed against it, Eduard's head falling into his lap.

A hand rose up to press against Toris's jaw. Eduard's fingers were as cold as ice. "You're… bleeding…"

"And you're an idiot," Toris gasped. He unbuttoned his jacket and pulled out his left arm. Toris gripped the sleeve at the shoulder and secured it tight across his waist, forming a makeshift bandage.

Eduard's words slurred as he struggled to speak: "Saw… an agent… had to… follow… "

Toris let out a breathy laugh. He brushed Eduard's bangs out of his eyes with a free hand, realizing too late it would smear blood into his hair.

"Did… I get him?"

"What?" Toris didn't know how long he could stay conscious.

"Couldn't… see… " Eduard tapped his temple to indicate the absence of his glasses. "Was afraid I'd hit… you… "

It was so wildly out of the realm of anything Toris would have known his logic-grounded brother to do.

"Why…?"

"Dumbass," Eduard grunted, and Toris blinked at the curse. "As if… I'd let anything… happen to you… "

An emotion Toris was not prepared for slammed into him. "I—I had a chance to ask Ivan for help." Toris didn't know why he was telling Eduard this now, but he _needed_ to tell someone, to believe it had been real. "He was right there, and I—I almost… " Toris swallowed. "But I didn't. I told him no." His voice grew firm as he added, " _I told him no,_ Eduard."

Frozen fingers came up to touch Toris's face, and when Eduard smiled, Toris couldn't control it anymore. Hot tears rolled down his cheeks, slipping beneath Eduard's palms. Toris clung to his brother's arm and pressed it to his chest. It was the first form of physical comfort—aside from Ivan—that he'd dared seek since Natalia left.

Eduard didn't say anything, but he didn't need to. He lay perfectly still in a spreading pool of Toris's blood, tears dripping on his face, and held Toris while he fell apart.

Eduard tensed. "Someone's coming."

Toris froze at the crunch of footsteps. He rose the pistol; Eduard's breathing became shallow as he dared not move.

Harsh, ragged pants, then a scratchy curse: " _Scheisse!"_

Eduard struggled to sit up. "Gilbert?" he called.

"Eddy?" came the surprised call. "Bist du das?"

"I'm with Toris!" Eduard shouted back, his words now slurred but coming faster.

With the rustle of trees, Prussia burst into the clearing. He looked down on Toris and Eduard and his face twisted into a scowl. "What the _fuck_ are you two doing sitting here on your asses!?"

Toris winced at the loud noise.

"I've been taking down an entire detachment of Commies by myself while you—!" Prussia's voice broke off as he seemed to register their position. "Eddy, you alright?"

"Yeah, but Toris was shot, he's… lost a lot of blood…"

A sudden seriousness flashed across Prussia's face. "Oh, no. Don't tell me they…"

"Hard to walk," Eduard grunted.

Prussia cursed. "Great. How the hell am I going to carry _two_ idiots back to the car?"

"You won't have to."

Toris glanced up to see the figures of Adrik and Raivis emerge from the trees. The agent held his left arm, which seemed to be bleeding from a wound. Toris looked closely for any sign of injury on his little brother, but Raivis seemed fine.

"Eduard!" the boy gasped, falling to his knees. "Oh my god, I thought they had _taken_ you—"

"Most of the agents have fallen back to the truck by now," Adrik said. "They know they're beat, but that won't keep stragglers from coming after us. We need to get these two to the car, now."

"I've got the stupid one," Prussia said.

"Which one is that?" Adrik huffed, eyeing Eduard.

"The one who abandoned me to a pack of killer Russians!"

"Toris got _shot,"_ Eduard growled, and for some reason Toris liked hearing his brother defend him.

Prussia rolled his eyes. "Latvia, you help Eddy. Diedrich's in no shape to carry him back."

"Who?"

"Just _grab your brother_ and get the hell out of here!"

Raivis held out hand, and with a grunt managed to heave Eduard to his feet. The Estonian could barely stand, and his weight was too much for Raivis to support. Adrik stepped in to offer his good shoulder, and the trio staggered back towards the car.

With Eduard gone, Toris looked down to see a dark pool of blood spreading across the snow.

Even Prussia looked impressed. "Shit, Lithuania."

Somehow Toris managed a weak smile. "That bad, huh?"

"You should be dead."

"I guess Feliks has rubbed off on me that way," Toris said. Prussia slung his AK around his back and knelt down as he added, "Hard to kill."

Prussia let out a harsh scoff and hooked his arms around Toris's legs and back.

_"AHH-eeiiahh!"_

Toris's insides shifted as Prussia hoisted him up. Colors swirled before his vision; he felt detached from his body.

"What, you've never been shot before?" Prussia huffed, as if getting peppered with bullets was a pastime.

Toris was struck with a sudden sense of déjà vu. "Yeah," he groaned. "By you."

"I don't remember that."

"You… called me stupid then, too."

"Yeah, well some things never change."

And that was the last shard of focus Toris had to speak. Cool air rushed against him, so different from the fire searing his torso, then leather pressed against his legs and he heard the rumble of a car engine starting.

And Toris didn't know how it was possible—a bullet was lodged in his gut and he was bleeding all over the back seat of a government car—but he felt lighter than he had in ages.

He turned to send Raivis a shaky smile. "You… brought him back…"

"I told you I could do it," Raivis said as he pressed a wadded up shirt—quickly soaking red—to Toris's side.

Toris lost the strength to hold up his head and rolled it to rest on Eduard's shoulder. Through his flickering vision, he saw the Estonian take his hand. The icy chill of his palm somehow registered past the pounding of pain in Toris's veins.

"You guys… take… such good care of me…"

And Toris's world winked out into black.

* * *

Commission by [kyuhu](https://kyuhu.tumblr.com/post/616749990284492800/chessna2-commissioned-me-to-draw-a-scene-from-her)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to kyuhu for this amazing commission! Their artwork inspired me to ship Estliet, you should go check it out!


	32. Выбор — Choice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick reminder that Ivan's story about rescuing Natalia from the Gulag happened in 1934. Please pay attention to the DATES in this history note to avoid confusion.
> 
> Nikolai Yezhov:
> 
> Yezhov served as the head of Stalin's NKVD from 1936-1938, during the height of the Great Purges. He was tasked with gathering false evidence for the Kirov case, the very first show trial which Stalin used to purge the Politburo of Old Bolshevik party members. From there he was promoted, and helped to fabricate the evidence that eventually had Gengrikh Yagoda, his predecessor, arrested and shot for treason. Yezhov even tortured Yagoda himself. When he was placed as head of the NKVD, many Politburo members thought he was a reasonable man who would not heighten Stalin's terror. They were wrong.
> 
> Under Yezhov, 50-75% of the members of the Supreme Soviet and military officers were stripped of their positions and imprisoned, exiled, or executed. The Congress which Ivan attended in chapter 26 is also known as "The Congress of the Executed" since more than half of its delegation was repressed. In 1937 and 1938 alone, at least 1.3 million people were arrested and 681,692 were shot for 'crimes against the state.' The Gulag population swelled under Yezhov, nearly tripling in size in just two years. His name was so closely associated with the purges that Russians later referred to it as "Yezhovshchina." He admitted that innocents were being falsely accused, but dismissed their lives as being unimportant: "Better that ten innocent people should suffer than one spy get away. If… an extra thousand people will be shot, that is not such a big deal."
> 
> But Yezhov himself would eventually become a victim of the purge. He was arrested under charges of treason in April of 1939 and put on a secret trial. He denied the charges, claiming he would die with Stalin's name on his lips. When informed that he had been condemned to death, he wept. Yezhov was shot in February of 1940 in an execution cell he had designed. He was summarily erased from all Soviet propaganda and government information, never mentioned in the history books and edited out of photographs in which was seen with Stalin. (Sources: Yezhov: The Rise of Stalin's "Iron Fist" by J Arch Getty & Oleg V. Naumov and Stalin's Loyal Executioner: People's Commissar Nikolai Ezhov by Marc Jansen and Nikita Petrov)
> 
> Yezhov was replaced by Lavrentiy Beria. Beria was arrested and shot for treason in 1953.

A sharp prick at the base of his neck, then a slow numbness that crawled through his muscles like parchment soaking up spilled ink.

That was Eduard's only warning before his legs crumpled and his skull hit the floor.

He awoke with a distinct lack of feeling in his lips, hands, and legs. Eduard's cheek was mashed up against a cool metal surface, the single source of warmth his trembling breath condensing into droplets. He struggled to move, but found himself frozen, hands tied behind his back. With an immense effort, he tilted his head just enough to make out the blank, grey slate of a steel wall.

Rapid popping noises echoed in the distance—machine gun fire.

A swell of panic rose in Eduard's throat, his breath echoing against steel. _They captured me. The MGB captured me and now they've dragged me to the middle of some forest, to be shot and dumped into a pit next to the Belarusian agents—!_

Eduard closed his eyes and forced his breathing to slow. Never once had he gotten out of a situation by panicking, and now was not the time to start.

_What went wrong!?_

He had been so sure they had more time! Russia would have taken more precautions if he had known the MGB would sneak into the Baltics' room and—!

_Wait. It wasn't our room. It was Gilbert's room!_

Eduard strained his memory for any hints that Russia's government had interest in the Prussian. But Russia hadn't mentioned him at all.

_Was that because he didn't care or… because he's been wrong about Stalin's plan this entire time?_

Eduard thought back to the day before, when the MGB had come to take custody of Gilbert. Was this kidnapping somehow related? And if it was… did they accidentally kidnap the wrong nation?

 _These walls are steel; this isn't an interrogation room… it could be a truck._ The dim grey glow and rushing cold air was a sure sign the truck was open. And most importantly: it wasn't moving.

_The truck should be a getaway vehicle. They should have taken me to MGB headquarters by now. Why are we stopped?_

Gunfire again—and Eduard realized there was only one person who would dare to resist the MGB. His eyes split open, frozen lips parted in disbelief.

_Russia…?_

A distant explosion rattled the metal.

Startled voices of MGB agents shouted quick orders, then the floor vibrated with heavy footsteps. Eduard grunted as someone grabbed him by the nape of his uniform and dragged him across the floor, then his head spun as he was flung over an agent's shoulder.

The freezing chill of night air pierced through the thin fabric of his nightshirt like daggers. The dark blur of rocks and twigs swayed beneath him, then the agents flung him onto a slope. His skull bounced against a rock, and he grunted into the dry snow melting on his tongue.

"Quiet," an agent hissed. He grabbed a fistful of Eduard's hair and mashed his face into the snow. Something warm dripped down the back of Eduard's head, soaking into a pool of slush by his ear. The point of a knife dug into Eduard's throat as the agent added, "You make another sound and I'll paint this snow with your freak blood."

He didn't need to say it twice.

Eduard's heartbeat slowed, pounding in his head like a dying drum. He focused on breathing, which was somehow a difficult task. Any feeling in his arms and legs had long gone, and his body rattled with shivers. For a ludicrous moment Eduard wished he were already in Siberia—even with the added windchill, at least he could move to try and keep warm.

_Rrrrriiiippppp_

Eduard jumped when the noise tore through the woods, and a blinding white light flickered across the forest floor. Then two rapid shots, and the agents' bodies sprawled into the creek bed.

Footsteps crunched through the snow, rocks and ice sliding as a figure stumbled towards him. Eduard braced himself for the gruff words of an irritated Russia—

"Eduard!"

_Raivis?_

It was Raivis. Even more confusing, Adrik Shkarov was with him—and was helping to untie Eduard. The dying agent gargling that his comrade was a traitor did nothing to sooth Eduard's suspicions about the young Russian's allegiances.

_Why would an MGB agent risk his life to arm and rescue subordinate nations?_

Then Gilbert called Shkarov by a different name—a _German_ name—and Eduard began to have a very uneasy feeling about the situation.

"Here," Shkarov instructed, and the car turned onto a smaller road that wound into the trees. Eduard strained his eyes through the window, darting between the black bars of tree trunks. His hand tightened around Toris's as a dark shape drew nearer in the woods.

It was a car.

"I've got a military grade first aid kit," Shkarov said as Gilbert slammed the breaks.

He was speaking German. And without an accent.

"That's all I need. Kid, help me get Lithuania onto the ground."

Car doors opened and Gilbert and Shkarov stepped out.

Eduard spun and grabbed Raivis by the wrist, "What do you see?"

Raivis blinked in confusion. "What?"

"The car," Eduard hissed. "Is anyone inside?"

Raivis looked over Eduard's shoulder and frowned. "No, it's empty."

"What about the trees? Can you see anyone, stationed around us?"

The boy took a quick glance out the windows. "No, why?"

Eduard pressed the pistol to Raivis's bloodied hands, speaking in a low whisper: "Do _not_ take your eyes off those trees. You see any movement, and you draw your pistol on Shkarov, got it?"

Raivis's eyes widened with understanding.

"Kid, hurry up! You want your brother to bleed to death?"

Raivis shoved the pistol in its holster. He climbed onto the seat, positioning himself behind Toris as he helped to push him towards Gilbert. Even in the dark, Eduard could see shimmering liquid smeared on the leather as the two nations grunted and lowered his brother to the ground.

"I've got it," Gilbert said, snatching the soaked nightshirt—a donation from Eduard, who now wore nothing but bandages and pajama pants—from Raivis's hand and pressed it to Toris's side. "Help me get his jacket off."

He and Raivis worked quickly, and Shkarov rushed up with the first aid kit. Eduard kept his eyes trained on the agent, watching for any sudden movements.

_The location is perfect. It's dark, we're surrounded by trees—everyone's attention is on Toris while they tend to his wounds. All too easy for a squad of agents to sneak up on us, outnumber us…_

"Cutting shears," Gilbert commanded, and Shkarov handed him something from the kit. Gilbert chopped at the fabric of Toris's shirt, then ripped it open. "Latvia, did you find an exit wound?"

"No, I checked."

"He'll have half-metal intestines, then. Gimme gloves and a flashlight."

Shkarov handed Gilbert a pair of latex gloves and passed Raivis a flashlight. The white ring of light clicked on, and Toris's stomach glistened a startling red.

"Gauze," Gilbert commanded, but Shkarov was already ripping open the package. Gilbert lifted off Eduard's nightshirt, and the absence of pressure allowed a thick burble of blood to gush into the snow. Eduard winced as Gilbert packed gauze into the bullet wound.

"Bandage."

Shkarov had one ready.

"Latvia, if you can lift him up."

Raivis handed the flashlight to Shkarov, then knelt behind Toris and grunted as he lifted his back off the snow. Gilbert ripped off what was left of Toris's shirt, then started wrapping the bandage tight.

The white light threw sharp shadows across Gilbert's face. His brow glinted with sweat, face smeared with dirt and crimson specks, brows knitted in concentration. Only then did it strike Eduard that Gilbert seemed to be tending to Toris out of urgency, not obligation.

After tying off the bandage in a knot, Gilbert sat back on his heels and wiped his forehead with a bloody glove. "That should stop the bleeding. His insides will repair themselves in about fifteen minutes, but he'll be in a lot of pain."

Shkarov handed Gilbert the flashlight and unbuttoned his own uniform jacket. Gilbert shone it to reveal bright red streaks soaked down the agent's arm.

"Latvia, there are extra coats in the back of that second car, bring some for your brothers," Shkarov hissed as he pulled down his sleeve.

Raivis ran to the car while Gilbert ripped open more packages of gauze. The Prussian held the flashlight between his teeth and pressed them to Shkarov's arm. The gesture only confirmed Eduard's suspicions—Gilbert needed _reasons_ to care for other people; it wasn't like him to help a stranger, especially a Russian agent.

_The new car is stocked with supplies. Shkarov is definitely planning to travel under the radar… but why would he give us his clothes?_

"Here." Raivis climbed into the car, handing Eduard a sweater, coat and boots. "I have an extra pair of socks; you can wear those too."

Eduard's desperation for warmth overcame guesswork, and he took the sweater from Raivis. He tried to pull it over his head but his arms still moved sluggishly; lost in the woolen maze he felt the light tugs of Raivis helping.

"What's going on?" Raivis whispered. He had switched to English, knowing Shkarov wasn't likely to speak the language.

Eduard's head emerged from the sweater, bangs ruffled and damp from a mixture of melted snow and sweat.

"Shkarov is Prussian."

Raivis's eyes widened.

"The MGB didn't want me; they wanted Gilbert. That's why he's helping us." Eduard took the coat from Raivis.

"How—"

"They can't get away in this car; it has bullet holes in it. They'll use the new one to blend in with traffic."

"They?"

"Shkarov is Prussian," Eduard repeated, struggling to fasten the coat buttons. "He works for the MGB. Where do you think that leaves us?"

Raivis batted Eduard's hands away—he barely felt it—and reached across the seat to help. "But… didn’t he betray them?”

"That's what he wants you to think. And now, thanks to you, his nation is safe. If I'm right, and the MGB is only after Gilbert, do you really think they would give him up without a consolation prize?" Eduard pulled a sock over his foot, wool scratching against his skin. "Toris is wounded, I'm drugged, Gilbert trusts him… do you see our situation?"

Even in the darkness, Eduard could see the fear in Raivis's face. "So… what do we do?"

"We find out as much information as we can. We need to know if we can trust him."

"And if he's lying?"

Eduard snatched a pair of boots from the seat. "Then you might want to put on an extra coat." He spent the next few moments tearing at the laces, to no avail, as his fingers had been reduced to frozen stumps.

"Here, let me." Raivis loosened up the laces. Eduard muttered a quick 'thanks' before shoving a foot inside.

"Eduard?"

"Yeah."

When the answer didn't come right away, Eduard glanced up to see Raivis staring at him intensely.

"Are you… okay?" The last word cracked.

"Raivis—"

"Did—did they hurt you? Or tie you up to a chair, or—"

Eduard grabbed his brother by the shoulders. The early morning sky glowed indigo on the boy's slim face and sweaty curls.

"I'm okay. And it's because you saved me."

Something broke in Raivis's expression, and he sat up on his knees to pull Eduard into a tight hug. Eduard returned the embrace, arms tingling with the pins and needles of thaw. It was ironic—he and Toris had started the entire plan to protect Raivis. But now _Raivis_ was the only one capable of protecting Eduard and Toris, should the MGB make a move.

Eduard's eyes rested on the dark shadow of the car. Earlier, he thought Russia had taken back his threat for the Baltics to "rot" in Siberia. But Eduard doubted Russia had anything to do with Shkarov's plan.

_Even Gilbert won't be able to stop the MGB from getting what they want._

His arms tightened around his little brother.

"Latvia, Estonia."

Eduard quickly broke away; Raivis snatched a second coat from the seat and jumped out of the car, rushing over to Toris.

Shkarov stood and dusted snow off his pants. "I'm sure you three are wondering what all of this is about. We have a short window of time before the MGB gets marching orders, so I can afford a brief explanation."

Raivis hooked his arms around Toris, letting out a grunt as he pulled him to the coat he had laid on the ground.

"Marching orders?"

Eduard tensed. He had guessed Shkarov's plan, but there were a lot of presuppositions to that. He needed to eliminate any mistakes, and fast. "Why didn't the MGB take me directly to a prison?" he asked.

"Because they never wanted you in the first place."

"They wanted Gilbert," Eduard filled in.

"That's correct."

"Why?"

Eduard could hear the disgust in Shkarov's voice, "To use as a political tool."

Latex snapped as Gilbert pulled off the gloves. "So it's just as Snow Bastard said: I'm nothing but the means to an end."

"That's all you've ever been to the Soviet government," Shkarov said grimly. "A few months ago, Stalin even tried reunifying Germany to get what they wanted."

"Reunification?" Eduard repeated in surprise. He expected an exuberant reaction from Gilbert, but the Prussian just crossed his arms.

"It sounds fucked up, but that's exactly what the bastards planned to do: Bait my brother with the chance to see me again, under the condition the Allies leave with all their guns. Then the Reds roll their tanks over his borders and—bam. Russia gets custody of Ludwig, just like he always wanted."

Shkarov beat Eduard to the question: "How do you know this?"

Gilbert flicked something out of his breast pocket. "A letter from Ludwig, explaining the whole damn thing. Latvia snagged it from Russia's office yesterday at dinner."

Eduard blinked in shock. It had never occurred to him to ask Raivis if he had actually _found_ something in Russia's office—he had assumed the boy would offer that information himself.

Raivis looked up from fastening Toris's coat to send Eduard a shy smile.

_And to think a few days ago I didn't even trust him enough to keep a secret._

Gilbert tucked the envelope back into his jacket. "Let me guess: the first plot failed so they've found some new sick shit to do to me."

Shkarov pulled something box-shaped from his pocket and flipped it open. "The MGB plans to torture you, then broadcast it to the West German government. And because the nations voted to nullify the Nation Treatment Code, they can do it legally."

"And… you want to stop that," Eduard guessed. It made sense—any citizen would be furious to learn their nation representative had been reduced to a chess piece.

"This is bigger than Germany," Shkarov said, clicking on a lighter. "The Americans have invested billions of dollars into rebuilding Western infrastructure there. If they saw through the Soviets' gambit the first time, they'll see through it again… only this time, they could retaliate. It could set off a chain reaction between the Soviet Union and the United States."

"Is that why you're helping us?" Raivis asked. "To stop another war?"

Shkarov took a long pull of the cigarette, then blew out a trail of smoke. The ember breathed orange against the blue snow.

"Or is it because you're Prussian," Eduard said.

Shkarov plucked the cigarette from his mouth. "I am Prussian. Or… I was, back when that was something to be proud of. Now I cower behind my father's surname as if it's the only thing standing between me and the Gulag." He locked eyes with Gilbert. "But that's only a minor reason why I'm doing this. The real reason is because you saved my life."

Eduard stared at Shkarov as the implications of that sentence dawned on him.

Shkarov offered his cigarette case to Gilbert. "You probably don't even remember me. I was just a face among the thousands you must have pulled from the jaws of the death camp system."

"But… I saw your memories, you were never in a camp—"

"That was the idea, wasn't it? To empty the trains before they hissed through the gates of Auschwitz."

Gilbert took a staggering step backwards into the snow.

Eduard struggled to process it. Shkarov _couldn't_ be a survivor. The corpses who stumbled from those cattle cars would have had nothing—just the filthy clothes on their backs, whatever food and shelter Gilbert's partisan chain could scrape together, and the little stamina their failing health would have allowed. They would have been lucky to make it to the end of the war alive, to even find a single surviving member of their family. Their property, their neighborhoods, their inheritance—it would have all been gone. And with the entire continent in ruins from the war, nobody would have had the compassion to help the starving ghosts that served as a reminder of Europe's mistakes.

But if Shkarov was telling the truth, he had done far more than survive. He had escaped to a foreign country—a country which routinely targeted and deported Jews—somehow been overlooked by Stalin's mass deportations of any German-affiliated citizens, and climbed the ranks of an intelligence agency until he was trusted enough to report on the nation representatives themselves.

It _had_ to be a lie.

But even so, how would Shkarov have known Gilbert rescued victims if he hadn't seen it himself?

Shkarov's voice cut into the stunned silence:

"Yours was the truck I climbed onto when you emptied the cattle cars. I was the last to get out; I had been knocked over and trampled by the other prisoners. The truck was packed full; we were under fire but you refused to leave me. 'Get your ass on the truck, son,' you shouted. And you grabbed me by the hand and pulled me into the flatbed.

"After they drove us to the partisan encampment, we unloaded and I never saw you again. But rumor had it you were the one leading the rescue operations. Nobody knew your real name; we just called you the White Knight. They said you had been raiding death camp trains for two years.

"Thanks to you, I was able to escape to the front lines and join the Soviet Partisans. By the time the war was over, my entire family had been killed—either in the siege of Leningrad or the Königsburg bombings. Stalin knew I was half Prussian, but because I had become a local war hero he decided to keep me alive. Made me into an MGB agent and promoted me quickly to use as a nation informant."

"Why would Stalin trust you?" Eduard cut in, narrowing his eyes. "I've seen the paperwork. Jewish schools, museums, theaters, even newspapers—they've all been shut down since the war. _Thirteen_ Yiddish writers were executed earlier this year under some conspiracy of 'pro-American Zionism.' What makes you the exception?"

Shkarov lifted the cigarette to his mouth and said, "I'm not Jewish. I hope that makes it easier for you to trust me."

"I didn't mean—"

"Of course you didn't. None of us do."

Eduard's jaw clicked shut.

"When the Reichstag burned down in '33, the Nazis blamed the Communists. My parents were warned to be careful… but they didn't take it seriously. One night at dinner, the Gestapo broke down our door and took my father away."

Shkarov blew out a stream of smoke. "I was young and stupid back then. I was angry at the Nazis; I wanted my father back. So I joined an underground movement printing anti-Nazi pamphlets in Königsburg."

He flicked the cigarette butt to the ground. The ember hissed, burning a hole into the snow.

"It didn't take long for them to find us. After seven years of prison, they emptied the cells and packed us onto cattle cars. And that's where my story would have ended, if it weren't for Prussia."

The weight—the sheer _impossibility_ of that statement—hung over the clearing.

Gilbert stared at Shkarov in petrified shock, as if the agent were a ghost who had climbed out of his visions and into real life.

"Did… did you save… any Lithuanians…"

The question was asked in broken German, so breathy and weak, Eduard barely heard it.

" _Toris!"_ Raivis gasped. He rushed to his brother's side, and a shaky hand clutched his shoulder as Toris struggled to sit up. "Toris, you shouldn't move!"

Toris bared his teeth, each accented word a rattling gasp: "Were there… Lithuanians… on those trains…"

Eduard's eyes widened. _When did Toris learn German?_

But there was more than that.

Eduard had always imagined Gilbert operating in _Western_ Europe. And with so many Jews being killed within the first year of Nazi Occupation, he had forgotten about those still left in the ghettos…

Gilbert's scratchy answer cut into his thoughts: "Yes."

With that word, Raivis seemed to forget all about his brother's health. His head shot up with a gasp,

"And Latvians?"

"Yes."

"Where did you go? Did you get trains coming from the Riga ghetto?"

"I think—"

"How many?" Raivis pressed, voice cracking with the desperation to know the answer. "How many did you get out?"

"I-I don't know—"

"Do you remember who they were, do you remember their names? Women, children?"

"I… I knew their names at the time, but—I don't know, I don't…"

Raivis pressed a hand to his mouth.

"Did you get to the Vilna ghetto?" Toris wheezed.

"Yes."

"Kaunas?"

"Yes."

Toris closed his eyes and swallowed, hands shaking from the effort it took to cling to Raivis. "Where… where are they?"

"We hid a lot of them in Poland. Some made it back home. I'm sorry, I don't know, I never thought about—" Gilbert's voice caught in his throat and he looked at Shkarov with a type of fascinated awe. "I never thought about the people who survived."

"Prussia."

Glassy tears streaked down Toris's cheeks as he and Raivis clung to each other in the snow. The Lithuanian smiled and whispered,

"Thank you."

* * *

_When Ivan awoke, he tasted blood._

_He licked his cracked lips and flakes of it dissolved into iron on his tongue. His breath came in rattling gasps, chest aching with each intake of air. His eyelids fluttered open, creases resisting a sticky substance that glued them closed. His flickering vision focused on a rusty drain glinting with dark liquid._

_Ivan's gaze travelled across the cement floor, taking in the patchwork of deep magenta, brown, and shimmering red stains. A dim, artificial light threw his own shadow across the floor—a silhouette of head and shoulders, framed by the skeleton of a chair. He lifted his head to see the walls marred with scuffs, stains, and nail scratches. Narrow slits had been cut into the cement, evenly spaced about a man's height from the floor. And through each one, glinted the light grey ring of a gun barrel._

_Ivan tried to remember what had brought him here. It had been a normal morning, hadn't it? He had eaten breakfast with his sisters… what had they talked about? Oh the trials…_

_He was supposed to be at the trials. He had started his car, and then…_

_An excruciating pain ripped through his skull—a splitting headache that shot down his spine and roared through each of his nerves. Ivan tried to move, but a cold chain bit into his arms and legs._

" _Oh good, you're awake."_

_Ivan recognized that voice. His eyes flicked up to see a short, thin man in uniform leaning back in a chair. The man was clean shaven, with sickly yellowish skin and protruding ears. His hair was slicked back in a glistening arch, and a scar sliced through his right cheek. His eyes glinted grey-green, like that of a cobra._

_Nikolai Yezhov set down a fork on the small plate in his lap. "Right on time too; I just finished my cake. Do you like chocolate, Braginsky?"_

_Ivan would have laughed at the irony. So this time he would not stand idle as more of his politicians were shoved down the hall to the execution rooms, screaming for him to save them. No—this time, Stalin had built an execution room just for him._

And without a trial? So efficient, Koba.

_Yezhov stood and bent down in front of Ivan; yellow teeth flashing in a crooked smile. "Not that you could tell me anyway. You see, after we shot you in the back of the head, we drugged you." He reached forward and pressed a finger against Ivan's nose, flattening the cartilage. "See?"_

_Ivan tried to bare his lips in a snarl, but nothing moved._

_Yezhov straightened, and his footsteps echoed against the cement walls as he walked behind him._

" _They told me you were immortal. A mysterious being who can't be killed by means of man. But you know what I see?"_

_Ivan's gaze fell to the outline of Yezhov's shadow._

" _I see_ meat. _Muscle, bone, and blood—just like the rest of us."_

 _There was a rustle of fabric, then a scratchy_ click _that Ivan recognized as the flame of a cigarette lighter. He expected the strong scent of tobacco, but instead an intense heat concentrated at the back of his head._

_A moment later he heard the soft hiss of singeing hair._

_Ivan clenched his jaw. The heat intensified, and the stench warped into something Ivan recognized: Burning flesh._

_Ivan's body overcame the drug as he bucked against the chains. His vision flickered and he gasped for air, god he was going to pass out—_

Click.

_A pathetic noise twisted from Ivan's throat—weak and beaten. His chest heaved from the pain and tears burned salted tracks down his cheeks._

" _To think I made Russia cry." Yezhov's words were laced with mock concern. "I wonder how many men could lay stakes to that claim."_

More than you can count.

_The thought had barely entered Ivan's mind before Yezhov grabbed a fistful of his hair and jerked his head back. The man was so short, only with the added height of his boots was he able to look down on Ivan's face. The scent of alcohol spilled into Ivan’s nostrils as he jeered,_

" _What else made you cry, hm? Losing your pretty mansion in Petrograd? When all your precious bourgeois writers left the country?" The glove tightened around Ivan's hair. "What about when you asked the royal family to 'wait' in the basement? They told me Anastasia was happy to see you again,_ Vanya."

_Hearing the diminutive on this man's tongue made Ivan's gut roil._

" _You don't regret that moment? When you skewered those children, crying and screaming your name, against the wall? You ever wish you could relive that day differently, Braginsky?"_

_For the first time, Ivan allowed his gaze to lock with the glowing, mad eyes of the head of secret police. What did Yezhov know about regret? This man imprisoned and tortured his colleagues, threatened their families, and had them shot like animals for "treason."_

_What did he know about dwelling on one's past sins, being crushed by them, controlled by them, hating what you've done so much that you hate yourself? So scared by the sheer weight_ _of it all, that you secure it under lock-and-key, and you spend a dozen lifetimes try to drown it out with power, alcohol, or sex…_

_No—a man like Yezhov did not regret. He hunted, and he killed, and he stuffed and mounted his trophies on the wall._

_Trophies of Stalin's terror came in the form of empty chairs._

_Hundreds of thousands of empty chairs._

_Yezhov's voice cut through Ivan's thoughts, "You keep trying to prove yourself to us, Braginsky. But no matter how many royal brats you murder, you will_ always _be the face of what the Revolution hated."_

_Ivan had always thought it ironic, how Stalin and his cronies despised him. The same nation who had served the tsars for centuries now represented their socialist paradise, and they hated it. But if Ivan was willing to abandon his old house, kill the royal family, watch half his country go up in flames while his closest friends fled, claiming this was not "their Russia…" didn't that make him more loyal than any of Stalin's men who had much less to lose?_

_When Ivan had pleaded for Katya's life, Stalin smirked that he had finally joined the rest of the country in sacrifice. But Stalin had always failed to understand that each and every life eaten by this ravenous beast called Communism_ was _a sacrifice._

_Ivan glared at Yezhov through blood-crusted bangs, and said nothing._

_Yezhov let out a harsh scoff and let go of Ivan's hair. He reached forward and tugged at Ivan's scarf, pulling it out from the chains with the slide of wool on metal._

" _I've always wondered… why do you wear this?"_

_Ivan tensed._

" _It's warm in here, isn't it? Let me help you take it off."_

_Yezhov flicked out a pocketknife. He pulled the scarf tight against Ivan's neck, and the cell echoed with the sound of a blade sawing through fabric. The threads of the scarf broke open, until Yezhov pulled at what remained._

_A loud_ rrrrip _filled the cell before he threw the shredded pieces onto the ground at Ivan's feet. A blossom of rose darkened into crimson as the scarf soaked up pools of blood._

_Ivan flinched when gloved fingers raked up the back of his neck, combing through his hair and exposing what he knew Yezhov could see. And then the head of secret police said something Ivan had always known to be true:_

" _Nobody wants a nation who would let this happen."_

_Ivan closed his eyes._

" _Tell me Russia: How many of your 'children' have you allowed to die?"_

_When Ivan didn't answer, Yezhov balled a fist in his hair and forced his head down. The cool tip of the knife scraped over scar tissue._

" _How long did you sit back and do nothing while injustice ravaged this country? While the aristocracy sucked every bit of wealth from the Russian people, and you_ enabled _it."_

Six hundred years. _The answer came faster than Ivan could deny it._

" _You've never been worthy of this position. You're_ weak. _Dozens of lifetimes haven't been enough to change that, and a dozen more wouldn't see any improvement. This country would have been better off without you."_

_A trickle of blood slid across Ivan's temple and collected into a droplet on his mouth._

" _Bring it in."_

_A door creaked open. Ivan tried to look up, but Yezhov's grip tightened on his hair, forcing his head down. Footsteps echoed in the cell as an agent handed something to Yezhov._

_From the corner of his eye, Ivan caught sight of a strip of leather and a brass buckle._

_He froze._

No… no, please no…

" _You are the reason your people were enslaved for so long," Yezhov said, the buckle rattling in Ivan's ear as he took it from the guard. "So you're going to die as they did: a slave."_

_Ivan recoiled as leather brushed his neck; he bucked at the chains as the collar sealed over his scars. Blood rushed to his head as Yezhov fastened the buckle. White panic screamed through Ivan's head, he lost all sense of where he was as he tried to rip his hands from the chains._

_Yezhov strode back to the chair. He picked up his plate and cut the cake with the side of a fork. He shoved it in his mouth, humming in approval._ " _Y'know—it's a shame you'll be too dead to try this cake Zhenya made." He set the fork back down, then stepped towards Ivan and grabbed him by the chin. Gloved fingers dug into Ivan's cheeks as Yezhov smiled with chocolate-stained teeth._

" _Da svidahnia, Rossiya."_

_Then he left with the guard, the door shut behind them, leaving Ivan alone in the cell surrounded by guns._

No, I will NOT die like this, not today, Winter, you will NOT take me like this—I'll forget the tsars, I'll do whatever they say, I'll arrest as many people as it takes—you hear me Winter!? I will NOT die—

_A deafening ricochet exploded in the cement cell; bullets ripped through tendons and muscle before Ivan's vision flashed to black._

Ivan's pen snapped in half.

He cursed as black ink gushed all over his hands, spilling onto his paperwork. Ivan ripped off his gloves and slapped them onto the desk.

He sat in his office at the Kremlin Senate Palace—a cavernous, lavish room which was thankfully far away from Stalin's temporary apartments. Two golden chandeliers hung from an arched ceiling patterned with off-white diamonds. High windows with red velvet drapes lined the wall to the left of his desk, framed by mahogany wood paneling which complimented the red and gold designs of the carpet.

Ivan was _supposed_ to be in the Security Council meeting room. But unsurprisingly, he had arrived to find the table and chairs empty. He had then been informed, by a frazzled secretary, that the urgent "meeting" had been cancelled, but that Comrade Stalin insist he stay at the Senate Palace to finish this weeks' paperwork, which, the secretary reminded him, he had been neglecting to do over the past few days.

The suspicious cancelation was proof the MGB was arresting Ivan's family.

He tried to distract himself with the bureaucratic details of Soviet government, but all he could do was to imagine what the new head of secret police had in store for the Baltics.

Ignatev could bring in their own people—Latvians, Lithuanians, Estonians—whose families and friends had been deported. Widowed wives, orphaned children, furious fathers demanding through their tears to know "Why didn't you save us!?" Communist radicals, MGB informers paid to torture and manipulate their own nations.

But would they even have to pretend if they, like so many Russians, blamed their own nation representatives for the misfortunes that had befallen their countries?

No foreign intervention—no bombing, no siege, no genocide—could ever compare with the effectiveness of a nation's own people inflicting torture. This the MGB knew well; as it had been knowledge passed down from one mad leader to the next. Controlling, hurting, and manipulating nation representatives was an art the Russian leadership had been perfecting for centuries.

And now they had the Baltics.

Ivan dug his palms into his eyes, trying to block out the images: Estonia, hands covering his head as the rubber sticks came down again and again, splitting skin and breaking bone. Latvia, crying and begging the interrogators to stop, stop PLEASE stop…

And _Toris—_

Ivan gagged, pressing a hand to his mouth as he ducked under his desk to dry heave into the trash can.

Rapid footsteps neared from the hall, gruff cursing that grew louder, and the wooden double doors to his office burst open.

" _Braginsky!"_

Ivan slapped a hand on his desk and struggled to sit up. "What," he spat. To think this man replaced Yezhov…

Ignatev pushed the door shut with his back, dropping papers onto the floor. "This is all your _fucking_ fault—"

Ivan pretended to sign the paperwork which was ruined by the ink stain. "Is that so."

Ignatev threw nervous glances over his shoulder. His face was shiny red, beads of sweat rolling down his forehead. "I—I-I am going to get _killed_ for this, Braginsky, I am going to get blamed for this _shit show_ and if you had just TOLD us you were holding the GDR captive this would have never happened!"

Ivan looked up from his desk. "What?"

"I always knew you didn't trust us," Ignatev spewed spit as he spoke. "But this— _this_ time you've really outdone yourself. What in the ever-loving name of Christ's mother did you think you would accomplish by keeping the GDR locked up for _seven years!?"_

Ignatev slammed a file onto Ivan's desk, flipping it open and jabbing a finger at a photograph. It was a portrait of Germany, wearing his Nazi uniform. "The GDR is the _brother_ of the representative of the _fucking_ Bundesrepublik! Did it ever occur to your rotting flesh lump of a brain, that this connection could be useful to the Union!?"

"I—"

"NO!" Ignatev roared. "No, it _never_ occurred to you, Braginsky, because even with all your 'Comrade' this and 'Comrade' that, we KNOW you never gave a flying _fuck_ about this government. You've got your head so far up your ass, you forget you represent the Soviet UNION, not whatever bullshit entity you stood for back when Gilbert Beilschmidt first called you a fag and hurt your _fragile feelings."_

Ivan stood from his desk chair. "Comrade—"

"I don't give a _damn_ how much you hate him, or his freak of a brother. I don't give a damn about your history, or your grudges, or whatever the _fuck_ it is that possessed you to hide him from us. You forced us to take covert action, Braginsky—you forced us to run _circles_ around you trying to pry the GDR from your oversized fingers so we could actually get custody of his brother LIKE YOU WANTED—and now your _fucking_ subordinates have intervened, one of my agents had gone rogue, GDR is missing god knows where and _I am going to get blamed for this!"_

It took a moment for Ivan to process the Minister's words. If the MGB wasn't trying to get custody of the Baltics…

_Does that mean they're safe?_

"They've already sent out the reports," Ignatev fumbled with more papers. "Comrade Stalin has been called in from his dacha and he's on his way _right now,_ and if you don't come up with a way to defend me within the next _ten minutes—"_

"Where are they?" Ivan demanded.

"I told you, they're on the way and I am going to get _killed_ if we don't—"

"Not Stalin, you idiot, the Baltic States!"

"What do I look like, a cloaking device!? They ran off, they're probably halfway across the bloody country by now—"

"Does Stalin know?"

"He _can't,_ until you clear my name—Braginsky, where are you going—"

Ivan strode to the door to snatch his jacket from the coat rack. If the Baltics had escaped, that meant the MGB would soon be ordered to track them down. He had to get to them before Stalin did.

"Don't you _fucking_ leave this room; my life is on the line here—!"

"And my family is on the line."

 _"I have lists!"_ Ignatev shrieked.

Ivan froze.

The Minister dove into his briefcase, pulling out leaves of paper and waving them in the air. "I've got—Pasternak! Pasternak, and your precious Akhmatova, Braginsky, you want that whore to end up like those two wet bags she called husbands!?"

Ivan lowered his hand from the door handle.

"Now you—you do _not_ leave this building until we make a decision on how to clean up this horseshit."

Ivan turned to face the Minister.

"We—we need scapegoats," Ignatev muttered to himself, thinking aloud in a frenzy. "Someone who could have corrupted Shkarov. I want lists of everyone that traitor has been in contact with. We blame someone… in the civilian population, so we don't deplete our own damn forces."

Ivan crossed the room in slow strides.

"The Zionist plot!" Ignatev exclaimed, as if he had struck gold. "That's it, we link it to the doctors, I've already got arrests and trials set up for January, Stalin gets his quota and I keep my fucking job, this is _brilliant_ —" Ignatev scrambled to pick the papers off the floor. "NASTYA!"

Ivan grew near enough that his shadow fell over the Minister. A slow smile spread across his face.

"Do you want to know, Comrade, what I think of your lists?"

Before Ignatev had a chance to respond, Ivan snatched the papers from his hands and tore them to shreds. He threw the pieces aside so they drifted around him to the red carpet.

Ignatev's face darkened from red to purple, "You _bastard—!"_

His voice cut off with a yelp when Ivan lifted Ignatev by the nape of his collar, hoisting him to his toes with ease. He leaned forward, knowing his breath reeked of alcohol as he growled,

"I am Ivan, Son of Winter and Heir to the princedoms of Rus. And _nothing,_ that you or your pathetic men can take away from me, will ever come _close_ to what I've already lost."

"If we don't control this, thousands will die," Ignatev gasped.

Ivan knew he was right. He could walk out of the Kremlin, find the Baltics, and keep them safe from the inevitable interrogations. Or he could stay and do damage control while the Politburo fabricated the Baltics' resistance into another controversy. Then at least he would have a say in who got blamed.

"You're… our nation," Ignatev gasped. "You're—supposed to protect—the _people—"_

A deep sense of revulsion rose in Ivan's throat. When had this man, or any of the others, cared for anyone but themselves? How many atrocities had they convinced him to commit, in the name of protecting the Russian "people?" Ivan was sick of being their puppet—sick of their lies and threats, as if imprisoning a writer or hundreds of agents would affect him any more than torturing his family.

His eyes fell to the torn papers on the floor to see half a name printed in typewriter ink:

— _reevna Akhmatova_

Ivan dropped the Minister and whirled around.

" _Braginsky!"_ Ignatev wheezed.

The girl by the door jumped, pulling a clipboard to her chest as Ivan strode by.

"STOP HIM!"

Ivan broke into a run.

Officers and secretaries let out exclamations as he shoved them aside, rapid boot steps covered Ignatev's shriek:

"If any one of you traitorous scumbags want to get home to your families tonight, _don't let him leave this building!"_

"SHUT THE DOORS!" someone shouted.

Guards began to close the white and gold double doorways lining the extravagant hall.

Ivan pulled the whip from his coat and cracked it across the room. A guard yelped as the leather wrapped around his ankle; a sharp tug and he went sliding over the wood paneling. The other guard rose his gun; but Ivan spun a metal pipe from his belt loop and hit him hard on the back, sending him sprawling.

"MOVE!" Ivan shouted as he burst into the dual sweeping staircase that served as the main entrance to the Senate Palace. Officers and secretaries scattered, some drew their weapons but were too shocked to fire as he raced down the stairs. Gunshots echoed and women screamed; a guard stood at the door but Ivan drew his pistol and shot his knee.

He heaved open the double doors, flying down the courtyard steps to see more agents coming in from the right. He made quick work of two guards with the pipe, then spun around and shot at the feet of the incoming agents.

The MGB was not used to meeting resistance. Their job was a fairly easy one—arrest and imprison unarmed citizens. People ran _away_ from the MGB; they were not used to being confronted.

And so it was, either from shock or fear, that the oncoming group staggered to a stop on the steps of the Senate Palace courtyard, faced with a hungover nation gasping for breath and wielding a pistol.

"Ivan Zimavich," one of the agents stammered, realizing just who it was they had been ordered to capture.

Ivan smiled. "Good morning, Comrades."

"If we let you go, we'll be charged with treason."

"Treason against who? Your nation?"

The agent slowly lowered his gun. "Create a distraction," he ordered the others. "Run to Catherine Hall; pretend we found him there."

"But Comrade—"

"DO it!" the agent barked, and boots slapped against concrete as they ran the opposite direction. The agent locked eyes with Ivan, and he recognized the connection of young soldiers prepared to give their lives on the battlefield.

Ivan gave the boy a sharp nod, then raced across the courtyard to save his family.

* * *

HISTORY NOTES

**Communists in Nazi Germany**

The burning of the Reichstag, or Der Reichstagsbrand, was a major turning point early on in Hitler's rise to power. On February 27, 1933, the Reichstag in Berlin was set ablaze. Marinus van der Lubbe, a young Dutch council Communist, was caught at the scene. After admitting to starting the fire, he was sentenced to death. The Nazis used this to spread propaganda that the Communists were planning to overthrow Germany, and thousands of suspected Communists in Germany and East Prussia were arrested. The fire also led to the Reichstag Fire Decree, which legalized the imprisonment of anyone opposing the Nazis.

**Antisemitism in the USSR**

Although Russia has a long history with antisemitism, the official Soviet stance was that of elimination of all religion. Up until the post-WWII era, Stalin largely kept to these ideals, even supporting an earlier proposal to create an Israeli state. However, he grew paranoid as the Jewish national identity grew stronger in the wake of the Holocaust, and began to associate any Jewish support with pro-Israeli America. In December of 1952 Stalin is quoted as saying, "Every Jewish nationalist is the agent of the American intelligence service." All Jewish cultural venues were shut down beginning in 1948, and 13 Yiddish writers were arrested and executed in August of '52 in what became known as "Night of the Murdered Poets." The paranoia culminated in what would later became known as the "Doctor's Plot," in which several dozen prominent Jewish doctors were accused of plotting to harm Soviet officials (January 1953) The plot is said to have been a pretext to a planned mass deportation of Jews, but this was abruptly put to an end when Stalin died in March of 1953.

**Stalin's Lists**

These were meticulously created and regularly issued lists of people who were slated for arrest, deportation, and/or execution, often by Stalin himself. They were written by a typewriter and signed by Stalin or other Politburo members. It's my headcanon that Stalin kept a select number of important Russian cultural figures alive, for the sole purpose of keeping them on a list he used to threaten Ivan with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Koba" was Stalin's nickname during the Revolution. For photographs of the Heads of Secret Police and the Senate Palace, click [HERE](https://chessna2.tumblr.com/post/186289093122/chapter-32-extra-materials)
> 
> Thanks for reading, and please don't be afraid to leave comments! I love reading them :)


	33. Uz Redzēšanos — Goodbye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I recommend that you listen to my playlist for this chapter, which you can find [HERE](https://chessna2.tumblr.com/post/187019546422/ditr-ch-33-playlist). Thanks for reading!

Eduard was unsure if Shkarov was to be trusted.

Yes, the agent was a survivor… but he had yet to reveal any of his plans. Shkarov caught Eduard's eye, sensing the urgency, and cleared his throat over the soft sniffles of the two Baltic nations.

"There's something else you all need to understand about Prussia's situation."

Raivis and Toris were quick to scrub their eyes, struggling to regain their composure.

"As long as the Nation Treatment Code is nullified, the MGB will never stop hunting Prussia. The agency has intelligence networks all across the world—even if he lived in exile, they would find him." Shkarov turned to Gilbert. "It would be impossible for you to serve your people in the public sphere. You are no longer a nation representative—you are a fugitive."

Gilbert smiled bitterly. "Not that I was a nation to begin with."

"But you could be."

The smile faded as Gilbert realized Shkarov was being serious.

"The only thing standing between you and your people is the vote the nations made seven years ago. I did some research; a nation vote can be reversed after five years with an eighty percent majority."

"Wait," Raivis sniffed. "So… if the Code gets voted back in…"

"The MGB would have no legal basis for capturing you. They would be required, _by law,_ to secure your official position as GDR representative."

There was a pause as everyone processed what those words meant.

"And how do you plan on reinstating the vote?" Eduard asked.

"Right now Prussia's existence is a national secret. If word got out that he was alive, the Soviet government would deny it and the Western powers would want proof." Shkarov turned to Gilbert. "That's why, if you ever want to represent your people again, you need to escape to the West and meet with the nation reps in person."

"Would they really care enough to vote again?" Raivis asked, astonished.

"Yes." Toris lifted a fist and coughed. "The only reason anyone voted Prussia out of the Treatment Code was because they thought he would die anyway. But now that he's alive, he's a tool for the MGB to use against the West." His face tightened in a wince. "Just get in contact with America… he would take this seriously, and he has the influence to push for another meeting."

"But America's across the Atlantic _Ocean!"_

"My brother could get to him."

Gilbert's voice was low as he stared at the ground. "From what Eddy told me, it seems America pretty much controls Ludwig's life. He probably has a phone line straight to the kid's desk."

A sudden heaviness settled in the pit of Eduard's stomach.

Raivis scoffed, "You can't escape the Soviet Union when the entire MGB is hunting you down, that's _insane—"_

"I have a chain of contacts who can get us to Berlin," Shkarov cut in. "But Latvia is right. I can survive the Gulag; I won't survive getting shot on the run."

It was enough to tear Gilbert's stunned gaze from the ground. "Then why are you doing this?"

Adrik swiped the MGB cap from his head and dusted snow off the rim. "I'm not so naive as to think I could save the world from nuclear war, and I'm not even patriotic enough to care about the East Germans' representation. Had the GDR been anyone else, I wouldn't have saved him."

He locked eyes with Gilbert. "I'm risking my life because it's _you—_ Gilbert Beilschmidt, the White Knight. You saved thousands during the war, you gave people like me a second chance. And to know that someone like _you_ would be deprived of leadership in a country that sits at the very crux of the Cold War? A country where people feel lost, and hated, and without a national identity?"

Shkarov craned his neck to stare up at the black, twisting branches. "I didn't ' _deserve'_ to get saved that day, no more than the East Germans ' _deserve'_ a nation like you. Somehow bringing you to them just felt… right." He huffed, as if thinking his own words absurd. "But who am I to decide if you go back to your people? That's your choice."

Eduard didn't need to see Gilbert's face to understand the torment he was going through. Shkarov couldn't know Gilbert had been fighting his representation since the day Eduard staggered down the dungeon steps. Because Gilbert didn't see himself as the savior of his people. He saw himself as the one who had _caused_ their persecution. How could anyone ask him to face them again?

Raivis's voice broke the silence: "What about us?"

Shkarov let out a deep sigh. That reaction alone sent Eduard's heart sinking; he knew an escape would be much more complicated for him and his brothers.

"This is why it was never my intention to involve you three. Your position is… different than Prussia's."

"How?" Raivis demanded.

Eduard knew what Shkarov was about to say, and his brother wouldn't like it.

"You're Soviet _republics,"_ the agent said carefully. "There's no law to be reversed that would change your situation. And the MGB has every bit of power in Latvia, Lithuania, or Estonia as it does here in Moscow. If your goal is to hide from the secret police, you'd have to live in exile."

"Not if we get help!" Raivis cried. "If we tell them how bad it is here, then—"

"And risk the West being accused of manipulating, even kidnapping Soviet territories? How would Russia react to that?"

"A nuclear strike," Eduard muttered.

Raivis rounded on him, "That's _ridiculous—"_

"No it's not," Eduard cut in. "We're chained to Russia, don't you get it? Whatever international setting we walk into, we bear the hammer and sickle on our flags; we _represent_ the Soviet Union."

"But we don't _WANT_ to!" Raivis shouted, and Eduard winced. "Surely they know that? That—we don't agree with any of this, that our people have been— _slaughtered_ to scare everyone else into going along with it! And the only reason we became 'Soviet' in the first place was because the _Nazis—!"_

Raivis cut himself off.

The awkward silence was split with the crunch of snow as he stalked away from the group.

As much as Eduard didn't want to admit it, Raivis was right. Gilbert was the reason they were in this position. It was the first time Eduard had truly processed what they had forgiven him for.

"I'll tell them."

Gilbert's eyes glowed like embers against the lavender snow. "I'll tell the Western powers everything you just said, Latvia. And everything I've seen here. I'll tell them about you—" His voice broke. "Maybe we can work out some new laws, or start an investigation. I'll gouge out America's eyes if that's what it takes."

Eduard felt as if he had just been punched.

Raivis slowly turned to face the Prussian. "So, you're… you're really leaving."

"Thank you guys—"

"No, _don't_ say that—"

"—for everything…"

" _Stop,"_ Raivis pleaded.

Gilbert took a rattling breath, and Eduard could tell the Prussian was barely holding himself together. "Eddy… you told me subordinates work to protect each other. And that's exactly what I'm going to do. But…"

Eduard smiled, and it hurt. "There are millions of people who depend on you."

"Yeah."

And the simplicity of Gilbert's answer let Eduard know that he was ready. After hours of conversations about East Germany, what it meant to be a subordinate, and having the courage to start over… Eduard realized there was nothing left for him to teach. Anything Gilbert still had to learn, he could only learn from meeting the lifeblood which had kept his heart pumping all these years.

What startled Eduard, was the physical _weight_ that settled in his chest at the thought of going back to life without Gilbert.

Raivis's silhouette marched out of the clearing and further into the trees. From a distance Eduard could barely make out the quick motion of the boy slamming a fist into a tree trunk.

Sharp inhales echoed across the forest.

Shkarov straightened his hat. "Prussia, if you could help me get Lithuania into the other car—"

"Where are you taking us?" Eduard asked sharply.

"Back to the mansion."

Another punch. Eduard felt like he would sink through the floor of the car.

Even Toris protested: "Adrik—"

"The MGB are expecting you to run away; the mansion is the last place they would look. And once Russia hears about this, he'll come back to protect y—"

"Russia doesn't care what happens to us," Eduard interrupted.

"I know your relationship with Russia isn't…" Shkarov's gaze fell to Toris. "…ideal. But he works very hard to keep Stalin away from you three."

"You actually believe that," Toris gasped with a bitter laugh.

"We're _out of time,_ " Shkarov snapped, and Eduard could tell he was finished with any discussions. "Think about what you've done today—killed MGB agents, collaborated with a traitor, helped Prussia escape. I would never have asked you to do those things if I didn't trust Russia to protect you from the aftermath."

It was the kind of blind trust any human would put in their nation. But Shkarov had overlooked the fact that Russia _himself_ would get angry at the Baltics. Even if their master did intend to protect them from deportation, what would his own punishment be?

Shkarov bent down to lift Toris's feet, and Gilbert rushed to hook a grip under his arms. Toris hissed through his teeth as they lifted him off the snow and began the coordinated trip to the second car. He fell gasping against the passenger seat, pressing a hand to his side. He was so pale, Eduard feared his brother would faint again.

While Shkarov went to gather first aid supplies, Gilbert strode towards the first car and rested a hand on the roof. He ducked down to peer at Eduard.

"Should I go talk to him?" he asked, jerking his head in the direction of the forest.

"Give him some time." Eduard smiled weakly. "Raivis can forgive you for the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact, but he might not forgive you for leaving."

"Well if anyone's glad to see me go it'll be you, right Tea Boy? You'll finally get to go back to that boring office of yours and make more notes in your little black book, or whatever."

The thought seemed no more appealing than being punished by Russia. When did Eduard stop wishing for everything to go back to the way it was before he met Gilbert?

When the silence stretched on too long, Gilbert cleared his throat. "I know those drugs can be a bitch. Think you can get to the car?"

Eduard slid across the seat and stood on shaky legs, holding out his hands for balance. He realized how strange he must appear, still in his pajama pants and wearing an MGB uniform jacket.

Gilbert offered a hand.

"I've got it," Eduard said.

Quick footsteps neared, and he looked up to see Raivis speed-walking to the other side, hands shoved in his pockets. The Latvian fell into the seat and slammed the door shut.

Eduard motioned for Gilbert to get in first, then he followed. Raivis inched as far away from Gilbert as possible, watching the forest intensely out the window.

Shkarov ducked into the driver's seat, and with the slam of car doors, the vehicle rumbled to life. Grey tree trunks slid past the window as Shkarov pulled back onto the main road.

"Gilbert, " Eduard said.

The Prussian jumped.

"Can I see that letter?"

Gilbert fumbled with his jacket, pulling out a crisp envelope and a flashlight. He handed them to Eduard.

"You said Raivis found this? "

Raivis shifted closer to the window.

"Luddy wrote it, just a few months ago. He said he wasn’t even sure if I was alive. I think—" Gilbert swallowed. "I think he’s been writing me every day for seven years."

"Can I read it? "

"Go ahead. "

Eduard slipped the paper out, unfolding it and clicking on the flashlight to reveal lines of flawless cursive handwriting. He squinted to make out the first line:

_25\. März 1952_

_Lieber Bruder…_

And from there Eduard couldn't bring himself to stop. The letter started out painfully formal, with no introduction; it read almost like a diary entry. His eyes widened at the details of the plot Shkarov had spoken of; it was genius on Russia's part.

_But I am certain of one thing: I now have confirmation that you are alive…_

Eduard's fingers tightened around the paper.

He had never known Germany personally. In fact, few probably had. The young nation was much like Eduard himself—logical, distant, emotionally removed from most situations. But as Germany's letter transitioned from formalities to an expression of pain at his inability to see his brother, and then a declaration of what Gilbert had taught him… the cold-hearted Nazi that Eduard had served in Berlin became a living, breathing boy.

A boy who just wanted to see his big brother again.

The letter trembled as Eduard handed it back to Gilbert.

"Thank you," he whispered.

"I think he's living in Bonn," Gilbert said as he folded it with more care Eduard had ever seen from the Prussian. "It's… far West, just South of Köln. We'd have to get through Belarus and Poland, and then—"

"The GDR."

"Berlin," Gilbert specified. "You said that's where trains connect to the West, right?"

To think Eduard's information was all Gilbert knew about his own capital.

"Yes, but they'll want to see a passport."

"Eddy, don't be dumb."

Eduard blinked at Gilbert in confusion.

The Prussian looked him in the eye and said, "I don't need a passport. I'm the GDR."

Eduard turned away and stared into his lap.

And then, for some reason, he started to laugh.

He had no idea where it came from—a soft chuckle in his chest, which gradually spread until his shoulders shook and he couldn't fight down the smile spreading across his face.

Gilbert wrapped an arm around him. "Oh thank Gott, I thought you were going to cry."

"I'll cry later," Eduard said, even as he smeared the moisture from his eyes.

"You'd better. After all the shit you put me through—"

"Like breaking you out of the dungeon?"

"Yup."

"And getting kidnapped on your behalf?"

Gilbert sighed dramatically, "The _worst."_

The car jolted as it drove through the black iron gate leading to Russia's property. The dryness in Eduard’s throat returned as he surveyed the wreckage that was now Russia's front lawn. The convertible sat crashed into a snowdrift, its left side drilled with bullet holes. Messy tire tracks zigzagged up and down the driveway, and agents' footprints gave away their presence in the snow.

A grim realization dawned on Eduard: _We can't hide this from Russia._ He leaned over to catch Raivis's eye, but all he could see were the unruly curls on the back of the boy's head.

The car slowed to a stop.

Nobody moved.

Fabric shifted as Toris handed Shkarov a pistol.

"This is yours."

Shkarov stared at the gun a few moments. Then he reached to his side and pulled out an extra pistol and two magazine boxes. "Take these; that's a fully loaded pistol for each of you."

Toris's eyes widened, "Adrik—"

"I'm sorry I can't take you to your people, Lithuania. It's been an honor serving as your escort."

Toris blinked at his escort, as if just now realizing he would not see the agent again. Eduard didn't know much about Shkarov, but Toris had always spoken positively of him. Shkarov respected Toris, even as a subordinate nation. That was a hard thing to find in Soviet Russia.

Toris took the weapons, and the Lithuanian representative and the MGB agent shook hands.

Eduard glanced to Gilbert, and he nodded and slid his arm off his shoulder. Eduard reached for the door handle, but as his fingers brushed the cool metal, he froze. How easy would it be, to stay in this car and escape to Germany? How _close_ was he, to never seeing the inside of that cursed mansion again?

"I need help," Toris said quietly.

Eduard closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Then he pushed the door open, and a cool breeze raked icy fingers through his hair. He rose on shaky legs, steadying himself with the car as he offered a hand to Toris.

"Not from _you,"_ Toris smiled.

"Well it's between me or Raivis."

"Fine if I have to choose… I'll take the blind, drugged Estonian."

"You forgot flogged."

Toris let out a breathy laugh. "We need a trip to the sauna after this."

The suggestion somehow made Eduard feel a little better.

A car door opened, and quick footsteps were barely enough warning for Eduard to step out of Raivis's way. The Latvian crouched and hooked Toris's arm over his shoulder. He kept his eyes firmly downwards, but Eduard could see they were rimmed red from crying.

Toris hissed in pain, and Eduard rushed to help. It took some readjusting and sharp inhales, but at last the three of them managed into a position where they could walk. Gilbert got out of the car, hands in his pockets as he smiled almost endearingly at Toris.

"What'd I tell you, Useless? These idiots love you."

"So it would seem," Toris gasped.

"Don't let this pagan do anything stupid," Gilbert said to Eduard.

Toris struggled to get his arm over Raivis, then took a shaky step forward and held it out to Gilbert. "Good luck finding your brother."

Gilbert huffed slightly, then clapped his rival in a firm handshake. His arm fell to his side and he turned to Eduard.

The sun was rising now, and Eduard could see much more clearly than before. Gilbert's hair and skin glowed silver in the morning light, eyes slicing through the dull colors with a slash of red. He wore one of Eduard's Soviet uniforms, stained with melted snow and blood. His eyebrows were thin, nose slightly crooked as if it had been broken many times, and his eyelashes glinted a shocking white.

Eduard didn't know why he was paying such close attention to Gilbert's appearance—as if he didn't commit the Prussian's face to memory, he might forget what he looked like.

Then Gilbert stepped forward, and before Eduard could protest, sinewy arms wrapped tight around his middle and lifted him clean off the ground.

" _Gilbert—!"_ Eduard sputtered, and he felt the distinct _crack_ of his back popping under the immense pressure. His arms dug into his sides; he felt ridiculous as he tried to squirm out of the bear hug. Eventually Eduard surrendered; he wormed an arm out from under Gilbert's grip and gave the Prussian what he hoped was a reassuring pat on the back.

Gilbert plopped him back onto the snow, and Eduard staggered before catching his balance. He looked up to say more, but the Prussian had already walked over to Raivis.

The boy sniffed, eyes firmly fixated on the ground.

Gilbert let out a deep shuddering sigh and fell to one knee.

"When you see Germany," Raivis said, his voice thick. "Tell him—if he can code his letters, they might get through the censors. Especially after the nations vote on the Treaty and—and everyone knows you're alive, then—then he'll probably want to keep writing you but he _has_ to do it in code or else your government will throw them all away."

"Sure thing, kid."

"And—when you tell America about us, just—just tell him everything you saw happen to Toris. America doesn't really care about me or Eduard, but—" Raivis took a rattling breath. "If he hears about Toris, he'll probably try to do something about it."

When Gilbert didn't answer, Raivis looked up. "Okay?"

"Okay."

Raivis thrust out his hand.

Gilbert stood to his full height and shook it, just as he had done with Toris a moment ago. And Eduard knew for a fact it was the first time Raivis had been treated as an equal by a formidable power.

Gilbert stepped back, crimson gaze traveling across the three of them. He opened his mouth, then laughed to himself as he rocked back on the heels of his boots.

"Well, fuck. I don't know what to say."

Eduard didn't know what to say, either. None of this felt real.

"Okay," Gilbert said with an explosive sigh. Then his face grew more serious than Eduard had ever seen it. "You guys… are _the_ best friends I've _ever_ had. And I mean that. Nobody I've known in my long, long life has done half of what you guys did for me in three days."

Gilbert's face blurred with the sting of heat in Eduard’s eyes.

"And it's not like we'll never see each other again, ja? I'll come back once we get everything fixed. I'll probably live in Berlin, but…"

It wasn't much of a consolation. The Baltics rarely saw the other satellite states; sometimes only once a year. Gilbert was more than a friend; he _understood_ their lives here, in a way not even Katyusha or Belarus had seemed to. It felt so incredibly unfair that he had to leave.

"Right," Gilbert said, sensing everyone was too emotional to come up with a coherent reply. "Well I hate saying goodbye almost as much as I hate apologizing so…" And then Gilbert clapped, spun on his heel, and marched to the car.

He opened the passenger door, but there he stopped. Gilbert stood frozen, holding the door open and staring at the empty seat. And then he looked up at Eduard, as if asking permission to go:

_What if I'm not ready for this?_

And somehow, Eduard knew exactly what to say.

"They're German, Gilbert. They love you. "

And then Gilbert's face relaxed into a genuine smile, and it struck Eduard it was the first time he had seen the Prussian look _free._

Gilbert ducked into the car and pulled the door shut. Shkarov gave a nod through the windshield, and the engine coughed to life.

It was surreal, watching that car back up in the driveway. Eduard caught sight of Gilbert waving, then the car swung around and all he could make out were the seats through the rear window.

"No…"

Raivis's chest rose with sharp breaths, as he seemed to register what was happening. " _No!"_

Toris gasped as Raivis broke away; Eduard staggered under the added weight. Toris clung to his neck, and they both watched their little brother sprint down the driveway after the car.

The passenger door burst open and Gilbert shot past the front, nearly getting run over. He skidded on his knees into the snow, and Raivis collided into him with almost enough force to knock both of them down. The boy's choking sobs echoed across the front lawn, and from the way Gilbert clung to him, Eduard was sure he was crying, too.

How long would it take them to make it to Berlin, he wondered? A week, maybe more? He dared to believe they would make it. They _had_ to.

Gilbert stood up and ruffled Raivis's hair. The boy shouted something in German, then Gilbert strode back to the car. The door slammed shut, and it resumed the drive past the gate. As the car took a left at the road, Eduard felt as though a piece of himself was getting smaller and smaller until it vanished over a white slope.

Eduard stared at that spot.

Cold fingers slipped between his own, and Eduard closed his hand around Toris's, squeezing tight until it was the only thing rooting him to the ground.

Raivis bent down to pick something off the snow, then he neared with slow crunching steps. Eduard could make out what appeared to be a black box in his hand. Raivis looked up with frozen horror as a static crackle echoed between them:

" _Ivan Zimavich has left the Kremlin grounds, I repeat, Ivan Zimavich has left the Kremlin grounds."_

_chhhhh_

" _Comrade Ignatev request that all men stand down until Comrade Stalin arrives, over."_

" _Copy that, standing down."_

_chhhhh_

" _Comrade Ignatev wants to know where Braginsky is headed, over."_

" _Due South, we suspect to Eagle's Nest, over."_

_chhh_

" _Copy that."_

"Eagle's Nest?" Raivis repeated.

"That's the MGB's code word for Ivan's house." Toris's grip tightened around Eduard. "That means Ivan's coming here alone. We have thirty minutes."

Eduard stared at the radio.

_No. No, no, no, no…_

After everything they had been through, after going through backflips and loopholes trying to play it safe, after lying and getting flogged and kidnapped and facing the secret police…

And they were right back where they had started!?

The MGB could have told Russia the reason their mission failed, which was that Eduard had been in Gilbert's room. That would be it—the final piece of the puzzle Russia needed to incriminate them. And even if they didn't tell him, what was to stop him from finding out? The bloodstains, the smoking car, the fact that _Gilbert was gone and the Baltics let him go—_

"Eduard."

Eduard was ripped from his panic with a firm squeeze of his hand. Toris's lips, thin and blue from the cold, pulled into a weak smile. "Let's go inside."

The three brothers didn't say a word as they made the difficult trip through the snow and onto the front porch.

A familiar sickness overcame Eduard as he turned the metal handle to the front door, pushing it open to reveal the slick wooden floors and crystal chandelier of the foyer. Coats, hats, and scarves hung on a rack to the right, tapochki and boots stacked underneath. Russia's house held a stagnant scent that was so different from the crisp outdoors—like alcohol and cleaning chemicals.

"I asked to go with him." Raivis's voice shook. "I-I wanted to go _with him."_

"Raivis—"

"I _hate_ this house—"

"Raivis, go get water and pain pills for Toris. I'll take him to the couch—"

"What's the point of meeting Prussia if NOTHING is going to change!?"

" _Raivis!"_

The rare boom of Eduard's shout echoed in the foyer. He closed his eyes and forced himself to calm; it was unfair to take this out on his little brother. "I wanted to go with Gilbert, too," he said, voice breaking at the last word. "But we can't. So, _please,_ go get some water and pain pills while I figure out what we need to do."

Raivis let out a harsh scoff. "What, Eduard, you have another _plan?_ You think you can just _think_ your way out of this one, huh!?"

"I don't—"

"Russia KNOWS! He's known this _entire time,_ from the second he caught Toris in the kitchen with that damn knife, he _knows_ we've been working behind his back, he _knows_ we hate him and now he _knows_ we helped Prussia escape! The only thing that stopped Russia from hurting us, was his delusion that we were his family well TOO BAD! Because _I_ was the one who told him, _right in his face,_ that we weren't, and now he hates us, and now he's coming home and you have a PLAN!?"

Eduard closed his eyes in exasperation. "I don't… have a plan."

Raivis threw up his free hand, making a sound between a laugh and a sob. "Es _zināju!"_

"I don't have a plan, because I'm cold, and I'm thirsty, I haven't had a good night's sleep in four days, and I've been sedated for the past five hours. Russia is _not_ going to beat us, not as long as I'm alive, so you can sit on this front porch and complain or you can make yourself useful while I _try to figure out what to do."_

Eduard didn't wait for Raivis's response, stepping forward and guiding Toris roughly into the foyer.

God, he was pissed.

 _Eduard_ hated this house. _Eduard_ wanted to go with Gilbert. Eduard never wanted to look Russia in the face again; he'd be happy to shoot him full of holes the moment he stepped through that doorway. But none of those were options.

Eduard lowered Toris on the couch, setting a pillow behind the Lithuanian's head so he could stretch out on the cushions. He glanced at the clock on the fireplace hearth—twenty minutes.

_There is a way out of this. There's a way out; I know it; it's there, I just have to find it._

Eduard began to pace. He ran the options in his head; any way he and his brothers could avert suspicion. They could claim to have nothing to do with Gilbert’s escape; that the agent was a Prussian who threatened them and got away…

_And gave us all pistols? No, that won't work…_

They did have weapons. But what use would those do? Russia had extraordinary pain tolerance, his story about the NKVD had proved that much, and he would recover even from a fatal shot in fifteen minutes. How many wars had Russia fought in which he blindly charged into gunfire? What threat were three pistols held by Soviet territories who had no further leverage?

_Leverage, leverage…_

Wait, maybe that was it. Eduard had been able to control Gilbert from the small fragments he had learned about his past. Last night, he sat through over an _hour_ of Russia explaining his history. Surely there was something he could use…

_But how? Blackmail?_

No, that wouldn't work. Nothing in Russia's story had been particularly incriminating, and telling Russia's past to the Western powers wouldn't change the status quo; not that Eduard had a way to contact them, anyway.

"Here."

Eduard stopped midstride to see Raivis offering him a glass of water and, to his surprise, a new pair of glasses.

"You can't beat Russia if you can't even see him," was Raivis's gruff explanation.

Eduard muttered a distracted "thanks" as he took the glasses and fit them onto his face. The tension in his muscles eased—if only slightly—when the living room slid into sharp focus. Now he could see every crease in Raivis's worried brow; the shimmer of sweat on his forehead and curls, and the flecks of dirt caked to his neck. Eduard's gaze followed his little brother as he crossed the room to sit on the couch by Toris. The Lithuanian's hair was stuck together in wiry strings, and his hands shook as he took the glass from Raivis.

Seeing his brothers like this confirmed to Eduard how powerless they were. He threw back the glass of water and resumed his circular march around the room.

Something was wrong; he kept hitting dead ends. He needed to change his angle. _What did I learn last night? What was just ONE piece of information from Russia that I could use against him?_

 _Wait… what if it's not something Russia did. What if… it's_ why _he did it._

Eduard froze in his tracks. He forced himself to slow down and run through the logic. It was complicated, and dangerous, and taking a huge gamble. But if Russia had kept to his word and told Raivis nothing but the truth, it might just work.

He spun around to face his brothers. "I've got it."

Toris and Raivis exchanged a worried glance.

"We tell him the truth."

A beat of silence as his brothers waited for more.

Toris smiled in concern, "Eduard, I don't think—"

"Raivis is right; Russia has most of the information he needs to prove we've been working behind his back. The only missing piece is why we wanted to release Gilbert from the dungeon. Depending on how much the MGB has told Russia, he could already know that I switched places with Gilbert. Even if they haven't told him, he'll want to know how I was kidnapped."

"So we're screwed," Raivis interjected.

"Not necessarily. If I'm right, and Russia is telling the truth, then he honestly wants to hear how his republics and satellite states feel about Soviet power. Last night when Raivis got angry and yelled at him, Russia's first reaction wasn't to lash out. He _praised_ Raivis and asked him if he could do the same thing at the meeting."

"Yeah, but then he almost shot me," Raivis scoffed.

" _Almost,"_ Eduard corrected. "Something stopped him. And it's the exact same reason he told you about the 30's."

Toris paled. "Ivan told you what happened in the 30's?"

Raivis rounded on his brother, "Wait, you _knew?"_

"Natalia told me."

Eduard felt a pang of betrayal; Katyusha had never talked about the early Soviet days. Then again, she held a lot of respect for Russia's secrets, and even he would admit they were never as close as Toris and Belarus had grown after the war.

Eduard continued, "Russia said he wanted it to be 'perfectly clear whose fault it is' when we got deported. Then he told Raivis that he 'saved' us from the NKVD. Even when Raivis asked him about flogging me, Russia said it was a 'hard' choice and he only did it to keep us from disobeying him so _we wouldn't get deported._ So what's his ultimate reason for punishing us?"

Toris smiled bitterly, "To keep us safe."

"Exactly. Russia's entire line of reasoning hinges on the fact that he can spin the narrative to paint himself as the 'protector' of his family. Raivis, what you did last night was brilliant. Instead of insisting we weren't a part of Russia's family, you took the premise that we _were_ and challenged him on the grounds that he wasn't treating us like one. He kept having to change the subject because you had trapped him with his own logic."

"I… did?"

"Yes, and we can do the same thing here. Even if he doesn't already know Gilbert and I switched places, Russia can expect that we'll be rebellious and stick to our version of the story, which is that he's never cared about us or protected us. As long as we do that, he can punish us on the grounds that he's whipping us into shape to keep us away from the MGB.

"But if we do the _opposite_ —if we play to his narrative, come clean with everything we've done in the past week, and challenge him on the basis _of his own logic_ by saying we ARE his family, then how could he justify punishing us?"

Eduard watched his brothers' faces closely as they processed the reasoning.

Raivis's eyes widened. "He'll run out of excuses."

"And as long as he understands that, he'll be trapped."

Toris let out a skeptical huff. "And then what? He admits we're right? He lets us go as if nothing happened?"

"It's a gamble," Eduard admitted. "There’s no telling how Russia will react when he realizes we've beat him at his own game. But unless either of you have a better idea, I think it's our safest option."

"And when you say tell him the truth, you mean—"

"Everything, yes." Eduard held Toris's gaze. He knew exactly what his brother was asking.

Until now, Toris had remained remarkably calm, as if too exhausted to care. But with that answer, Eduard watched his brother visibly shut down.

Toris's face grew white as chalk and pinched with nausea. He shrank into the couch, shoulders folding in as his hands trembled, unfocused eyes darted across the ceiling in mounting panic.

Even Raivis noticed the change. "Toris, it's going to be okay, it's not like we've never worked behind Russia's back before—"

"No," Toris shook his head, teeth bared in pain. Sweat glistened on his neck as he writhed back into the pillow. "No, that was different. We only had a year… I knew the Nazis would invade…"

"Well, what about the uprisings?"

"I thought we would _win."_ Toris screwed his eyes shut. "This is just like '45… there's no telling what Ivan will do…"

"It's nothing we haven't been through before, right?"

Toris winced, a moan arose from his throat, then his body lurched and he rolled over to grip the couch with shaking hands. Sweaty strands of hair hung over the cushions and vomit sputtered to the floor.

Raivis leapt off the couch, "Toris, what the _hell—!?"_

Eduard barely processed what he was seeing. Clear strings of bile dripped to the carpet. The living room filled with Toris's wet, gargled gasps for air. Something was wrong. Something was _hurting_ Toris and Eduard didn't know what it was and Toris was _throwing up—_

" _Eduard!"_ Raivis's cry cracked with desperation; he spun around and Eduard saw his brother was just as petrified, screaming the mental message: _Help me!_

Somehow Eduard snapped out of it, he commanded his feet to move and then he was by Toris's side, holding his shoulders, trying to get him to sit up; he could smell the blood and feel the sweat through his brother's new jacket; _god_ he was white as a sheet and Toris didn't even have the strength to resist.

"Toris," Eduard stressed, trying to guide his brother into a steady sitting position. "Toris, it's okay—"

Toris retreated into a ball, fingers raking through his hair, and he was _shaking,_ and it sounded like he was _crying,_ and the horror on Raivis's face did nothing to calm the sirens screaming in Eduard's head to know what the _fuck_ was going on—!

He was hurting. So much; Eduard could _feel_ it crushing his chest and it infuriated him because he wanted to shatter that hurt into a million pieces but he didn't know how.

"Toris," he said. The name broke in his throat.

Eduard closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When his pulse slowed in his ears he said, "Are you afraid of what Russia will do?"

The Lithuanian nodded, face buried into his knees.

Eduard swallowed. "Is it… because of something he's done to you before?"

And then Toris froze.

He stopped crying, stopped shaking, stopped _breathing._

Raivis met Eduard's gaze with brokenhearted understanding. They had always known. Or… they had always _thought_ they had known. But never had they pressed for any details; never had Toris even begun to scrape the surface of offering them.

Slowly, Toris emerged from the shell he had created with his body. His fingers curled around the edge of the couch as he stared numbly at the carpet designs.

Eduard said the words so delicately, as if afraid of harming his brother: "We want to help."

_We love you, Toris. We love you so much that it hurts._

The silence was making Eduard desperate. He didn't know what to do. It felt as if Toris had fallen down a deep, dark abyss, and he couldn't reach him.

Raivis lowered himself onto the couch. He carefully slid his hand across the cushions, until he folded it in Toris's, interlacing their fingers.

The only sound was the slow ticks of the clock.

It was sixty full, awfulseconds before a scratchy voice said,

"It was… _so_ long ago…"

Eduard put an arm around his brother. Toris didn't resist or flinch at the touch; thin wisps of hair brushed his neck as he leaned into him.

"It's—so long ago, it's— _stupid,_ really…"

"It's not stupid," Eduard said.

And then Toris told them.

It came out in pieces—like shards of stained glass scattered across scorched chapel floor. Each word was backed with the weight that Toris's throat could physically not produce the sounds, each sentence an island drowning in the agonized silence he needed to summon the strength to continue:

"I was an _idiot…_ And afterwards he acted as though nothing had happened… He was _nice_ to me…"

With each broken, pained sentence, a smoldering hatred flared up in Eduard's veins. But nothing would prepare him for the answer to Raivis's question:

"When did this happen?"

If Toris had been still before, now he became stone.

"Toris." Raivis's voice shook with the anger Eduard felt, " _When_ did it happen."

For the first time, emerald eyes rimmed red rose to meet Eduard. The words slid out like a dying wish:

"1812."

Eduard blinked.

_Wh…_

_No. No, that was—that was before the first uprising, before he—_

_No. No, oh god, please no—_

His horror was mirrored by Raivis's jaw dropping.

"That's why I never told you," Toris said, and the tears came back. "I-I didn't want you to be mad—"

" _Toris!"_

"Because it would make you look bad, because we weren't friends back then, and I know you hated me for running away in 1830 because you thought I did it for selfish reasons, or—because I abandoned you—Raivis, you said you _hated_ me—"

Raivis put a hand to his mouth.

"But I _didn't_ abandon you, I would _never_ do that to you, not even back then, I just—I just didn't have anywhere else to go and I didn't know what else to do, and I was—trapped, I was _trapped_ and I wanted to kill myself because Ivan made it look like we were still together and I didn't want to oppose that because I was so fucking scared of what would happen if I did, and so you thought we were still a couple, but we weren't, we _weren't!_

"When I left for the Uprising, we were supposed to _win._ I didn't _know_ that Ivan would take it out on you, he had never hurt you before, and—and when I got back, he beat me, and then… told me it was my fault he had done the same thing to you. And when I saw you again, I knew it was true because you hated me… you _hated_ me, even more than you did before, and now somehow it was _my_ fault—

"And I knew in my head that it wasn't, I kept telling myself I had just run away to protect myself, but—but I wasn't allowed to write or see Feliks anymore, he—he _wasn't there_ to speak sense into my head, and all I got was just—this hatred, this _poison,_ and I started to believe it. I would get so angry at myself, not just for running away, but for falling for Ivan in the first place, thinking _I_ should have protected you and that _I_ owed it to you to make up for the wrong that _I_ did…

"And that just—just _never went away,_ and—by the time Ivan took us back in '45, I was determined not to let that happen again. I swore to myself that I would do it right this time, that I wouldn't 'fail you' like I had the first time—"

Eduard felt sick.

"And after we made the deal I-I knew it would look like we were together again, but I thought you two would understand that I-I didn't feel that way about him anymore, but… but then you—kept saying that—that I was on Russia's _side_ and—and that I _loved_ him and… and then Prussia comes along, and you two just—just _forgave_ him, and loved him and supported him—and—and I guess I was jealous because—because…"

Tears dripped off Toris's chin as he whispered,

"Why couldn't you have done that for _me?"_


	34. End

Toris had never really been a _person_ to Eduard prior to 1864.

He had been the Grand Duchy of Lithuania. Poland's partner, just one in the line of faces at Eduard's doorstep clawing for territory. He was distant, powerful—a superpower supported by other superpowers. They inhabited one world, Eduard another.

But somehow, even after they became friends, Eduard still separated that timeline.

Toris _changed_ after 1864. He didn't seem so distant, he asked Eduard about his history and culture; for the first time Eduard felt that Toris saw him, not as a territory, but as a fellow nation. And as Eduard reluctantly let Toris into his life, he realized this bold knight who always seemed to tower over him was in fact a _person_ —with a rare laugh, an outdated fashion sense, and a certain way he liked his coffee.

Yet somehow, after almost a century, never had it occurred to Eduard, that _this_ person—the one he befriended through their trips to Petersburg markets—was the same person who had fallen in love with Russia in 1796.

That _this_ person—the one who helped him and Raivis to escape and win their independence—was the same person who had run away that horrific night in 1830.

And deep down, maybe he had always known it was wrong. Surely Toris wouldn't have burst into tears the day Raivis forgave him in the bathroom, if he hadn't been in so much pain from those years of isolation. But in Eduard's determination to stay in the right, he had masked that guilt with a sense of justice:

_Now he knows how we felt. It's what he deserves._

So Eduard never felt responsible for whatever happened to Toris in the early Petersburg days. That had always been _Russia's_ problem.

Sure, they were friends now, because _Toris_ had changed, because now somehow _Toris_ was deserving of that love. For almost a century, Eduard had assumed they started at ground zero in 1864, that everything was fine and they were friends now and there was no reason Toris should ever distrust or withhold any information from him.

He had been so, so wrong.

Because while, just yesterday, Eduard had looked Toris in the eyes and told him love wasn't something to be earned, he himself had forced Toris to fight and claw for one _drop_ of compassion for almost seventy years.

"Do you see why I can't tell Ivan," Toris choked, smearing his sleeve across his nose. "Because every time I betray him, he takes it personally and—and I have _no idea_ what he'll do. Part of the reason I made the deal was so I could at least pretend I was in control… But now the deal is off, and this morning I was _so close_ to setting up something else with him, but I didn't and I—I-I'm glad I didn't but I'm _so scared_ and I—I'm so sorry, Eduard, I-I know it's the only plan we have but I _can't—"_

And then it hit Eduard: _Russia can't be reasoned with._

What was the point of trapping Russia with his own "logic," when it was obvious from Toris's story that he had none? What _logic_ led Russia to molest the only nation who was ever kind to him, who loved him, who trusted him? How could a monster like that be held accountable to whatever nonsense he had spouted at Raivis last night?

The hairs on the back of Eduard's neck rose at the distant rumble of a car engine.

Toris buried his head in his hands, "He's _coming…"_

Eduard’s jaw tightened as his eyes fell to the guns on the floor.

"Eduard," Raivis said, tears staining his cheeks as he looked up at his brother. "What do we do?"

Eduard wanted to press a pistol to Russia's forehead and blast a bullet through his brains. _But the MGB could have warned him that we're armed. He could be ready for resistance; the second he knows we mean harm he has every reason to hurt us._

_…but what "reason" did he have to hurt Toris back then!? What difference does it make!?_

The car slowed to a stop in the driveway.

" _Eduard!"_ Raivis cried.

Eduard jolted into action, snatching the pistols off the floor and handing one to Raivis. "You and I will hold him in the foyer. Toris, draw your gun and _don't say anything._ "

Toris smeared his cheeks with the back of his hand, "I-I'm coming with you."

Eduard cursed; they didn't have time to argue. He looped Toris's arm around his shoulder.

"What are you doing!?" Raivis shouted as Eduard struggled to help Toris off the couch. "We need to get Toris out of here!"

"We don't have time for that! Raivis, stand by the living room entrance, aim at the door and if Russia makes a _single_ move when he comes in, you shoot."

Raivis rushed after them, "So we're just letting him come in!?"

"I'm going to talk to him."

" _What!?"_

" _Shut up_ and hold the door! His whip can reach across the room, so stay back!"

Eduard guided Toris to the foyer, towards the wall nearest to the kitchen. The Lithuanian supported his weight with one hand and fumbled with his pistol. Eduard strode to the center, directly beneath the chandelier.

"What about the plan?" Toris gasped.

"Don't worry, we'll protect you."

And Eduard meant those words, down to his core.

He checked his distance, making sure he was over a whip's reach from the front door. He glanced at Raivis to see the boy aiming at the entrance, breaths slow and focused. Eduard raised his own pistol, gripping it steady with two hands.

His gaze focused on the grain of the wood.

A car door slammed shut and rapid footsteps neared the door. It was thrown open with such force that it nearly flew off the hinges.

"DON'T MOVE!"

Eduard's shout echoed in the foyer, and he found himself looking straight down the barrel of a Makarov. The fabric of Russia's scarf whipped against his back, bangs ruffling in the cool breeze. Icy violet eyes, narrowed and ready to shoot, widened and moved from one armed Baltic to the next.

"Drop your weapons!" Eduard shouted.

The medals on Russia's uniform clinked in the wind.

" _Now!"_

"Alright," Russia said calmly, and the pistol clattered to the floor. He raised his gloved hands in surrender.

"Any sudden moves and we _will_ shoot," Eduard growled through clenched teeth.

"Da, I can see that."

"Everything else," Eduard said, nodding towards Russia’s belt. "On the floor."

Russia reached slowly towards his hip. Eduard's muscles tightened into a coil, waiting for Russia to even think about using another weapon. Haunting violet eyes stared Eduard down as he opened the fold of his coat. One by one the weapons came out: Two more pistols, a pipe, a whip, and a dagger from each boot. All of them laid at the floor.

"Stand up," Eduard ordered.

Russia slowly rose to his feet.

"Step back three paces."

Russia smiled, "Does it feel good to be in charge, Estonia?"

"I said, _step back."_

Russia did so.

A low whistle swept through the door, rustling the scarves on the coat rack.

"What—" Eduard's voice broke with hesitation. He forced himself to continue, "What did the MGB tell you?"

"They wanted custody of Prussiya, somehow you stopped that, and Comrade Shkarov went rogue." Russia raised an eyebrow. "He gave you the pistols, I assume? Unless you picked them off dead agents; there are bloodstains on my front lawn."

_He's not afraid._

Of course Russia wasn't afraid. The Baltics could shoot him, get their petty revenge, and then what? Tie him up, threaten to hurt him? That leverage was useless; the MGB didn't care about his well-being. Even if the Baltics ran away to their own countries, they would get caught by MGB agents and sent right back.

With horror, Eduard realized there was only one nation who had the power to save him and his brothers. And that nation stood in front of him.

"Why did you come back?" he asked sharply. He needed more information before he could decide how to approach this.

Russia let out a short huff.

" _Answer_ the question," Eduard pressed. He wasn't in the mood for mind games.

"Comrade Stalin has arrived at the Kremlin as we speak. He is giving orders to his agents on how to deal with you three." Russia looked Eduard in the eye as he said, "I came back to get to you before they did."

"And what do you plan to do with us?" Eduard asked.

"To be honest I thought about arming you. Seems you thought ahead of me, da?"

"If you armed us, we could shoot you."

"Estonia." Russia's lips spread into a wide smile. "You're much too smart for that."

"But I'm not."

Raivis's eyes narrowed in hatred at his master, knuckles white from gripping the gun so tightly.

Russia's smile faded. "After everything I told you last night, Latvia, you of all people should know it is a miracle I even bothered to come back. And now you're threatening me?"

"You don't care about us," Raivis said, tears shimmering on his cheeks. "You _never_ cared about us. Everything you told me last night was a LIE!"

"I did not lie."

" _No—"_

"We shook on it, Latvia."

"You CAN'T care for other people!" Raivis shouted, voice cracking. "How—it's impossible—what you did…" Raivis didn't need to finish that sentence for Eduard to know what he wanted to say: _to Toris._

"Do you remember that girl, Latvia? The Belarusian girl, who I shot in the forest?"

The pistol shook in Raivis's hands.

"I visited her parents. I told them I had killed her. Do you think they believed me, when I said I had no choice? What kind of hatred and accusations do you think those childless parents had for me? How many more of my people, do you think have spat at me for taking the lives of their loved ones? How many times do you think I've heard that I am incapable of having an ounce of human compassion in my blood?"

Russia's eyes grew distant. "And maybe it's true. I destroy everything I touch. And yet I'm still here, I still came back, knowing you would hate me. And I don't care what you think of me anymore, I don't need you to obey me to look 'good' for Stalin. I'm tired of pretending."

Eduard didn't understand. His entire logic for the plan had hinged on the fact that Russia was looking for reasons to punish them. But Toris's story proved the Russian needed no reason at all—that he could become a ruthless beast, lashing out with teeth and claws into the innocent people around him. And now Russia comes home, claiming to not want to hurt anyone _at all?_

"What do you mean?" Raivis's hands shook. "You're not going to punish us?"

A light of realization came over Russia's face, as if that sentence had put something into words he couldn't have expressed himself. Then he took a step forward, and bent down to reach for the whip.

 _"Get_ _back!"_ Eduard shrieked, his heart leapt into his throat, the leather slid against the floor like a snake as Russia stood.

And then Russia turned with the swirl of his military coat, drew back the handle of the whip, and hurled it out the front door.

Eduard flinched at the familiar whistle of the leather flying through the air, but it was moving away from him, not towards him. There was a soft _crunch_ as the weapon landed in the snow.

Russia stood still in the doorway, sides heaving as he glared into the wintery landscape. The scarf whipped like a white ribbon in the wind, silver hair blowing around his ears.

Eduard watched, stunned, as Russia picked up all the weapons—the guns, the knives, the pipe—and threw each of them outside, into the snow now glistening gold from the morning sun.

Russia pulled the door shut, and the icy chill cut off with the vacuum of shocked silence.

Eduard stared down the barrel of his pistol at his master.

No.

_No._

It wasn't enough. Russia had done too much, had hurt Eduard, had hurt Raivis and Toris far, _far_ too much for this to ever be enough.

Russia couldn't just throw his weapons out the door and call that an apology. Russia couldn't expect Eduard and his brothers to go on as if the damage could ever be undone.

A bead of sweat rolled down Eduard's temple, his finger trembled on the trigger.

_You deserve to die._

Russia smiled—a sad expression, knowing exactly what Eduard thought of him.

"So. What is your verdict, Estonia?"

* * *

Eduard's office smelled like tea.

This was something Toris had noticed some years ago, and he always made a point to breathe in that scent whenever he walked through the high double doors that led into his brother's workplace. If he paid enough attention, he could even tell what kind of tea Eduard had been drinking that morning.

Today it was peppermint.

Toris didn't know why, but he was already smiling when he strode through the doors. Eduard didn't look up from his desk when he came in. The office was silent, save for the soft scratch of pen on paper.

"What are you writing?" Toris asked, balancing a tray on one hand as he took Eduard's empty cup from the desk. He smiled when he saw the green tag: Peppermint.

"A letter to Katyusha," Eduard replied. He scribbled a quick signature, then pushed up his glasses with an irritated sigh. "Why didn't Russia invite her over for New Years?"

Eduard's bangs were ruffled. Maybe he had raked his fingers through them while writing the letter.

Toris turned his attention back to clearing dishes off Eduard's desk. "Maybe Ivan was afraid the MGB might make a move, so he kept the celebrations to a minimum."

"How considerate of him," Eduard drawled.

Toris knew his brother was upset he didn't get to see Ukraine. In truth, Toris was thankful for the absence of a party—he wasn't sure how he could face _her_ again.

"Any changes between you and Russia?" Eduard asked.

Toris's shoulders sagged at the change in topic. "No. He's still avoiding me."

Eduard’s gaze grew serious. "Well if anything happens—"

Toris sighed, "I know."

"And I mean _anything—"_

"I can come to you," Toris finished.

"With _anything."_

"I can come to you with anything."

Sharp teal eyes seemed to slice through Toris's soul. Then Eduard's expression softened with contentment, as if hearing those words pleased him greatly. "What do you have for the rest of today?" he asked, creasing the letter into a neat trifold.

"Just lunch; Ivan doesn't trust the MGB enough for me to go out into the city. And it could be months before I get assigned another escort."

"More time with us, then." Eduard licked a stamp and pressed it to the envelope. "That's good."

Toris's cheeks burned. Eduard and Raivis had been particularly supportive in the last week—giving him compliments, saying how much they enjoyed being around him. One day Raivis had burst into the kitchen, as if bearing some urgent message, only to announce proudly to Toris that he loved him.

Even the tiniest signs of appreciation left Toris weak with flattery.

"Well," he said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind his ear. "I should go."

"Mm-hm," Eduard said, not paying much attention as he wrote Ukraine's address. Toris found it funny the Estonian had it memorized.

Toris strode to the door, then turned back and said, "Good luck setting up your date."

Eduard’s face flushed red. "It is _not—_ we're just friends!"

Toris laughed—something he seemed to do much more freely these days—and carried the tray out of the office and down the hall.

His next stop was to collect empty teacups from Ivan's office. _I'll just take them without interrupting._

Ever since the day of Prussia's escape, Ivan had been deliberately ignoring him. Toris knew he should feel relieved to be free of the Russian's looming presence… but he couldn't help but sense a violet gaze on the back of his head whenever he wasn't looking. No matter how many times Toris tried to catch his master in the act, Ivan would be buried at his desk, or in the newspaper.

 _He's watching me,_ he thought with a shudder.

Just as Toris rounded the corner to Ivan's office, the loud blare of a phone ringing echoed down the hall. The noise cut off with the abrupt _click_ of someone yanking it off the stand, then Ivan's voice travelled through the cracked door:

"Ivan Zimavich speaking."

A short pause.

"Have you found him?"

Toris froze. _Could he be talking about… Prussia?_

"Thank you, sestra, I knew that I could trust you. You will bring him back as agreed, da?"

Toris's blood ran cold. He strained his ears, struggling to hear a muffled voice on the other line.

"What is it that you would like? …And if I don't?"

Another pause.

"Fine. But Katya will be coming back, too. I will see you in a week, then. Vsio."

Toris fell back against the wall, teacups clattering on the tray as beads of sweat collected on the back of his neck.

There was only one person Ivan could be talking to—the only person he would trust with the capture of Prussia, the one person who was unconditionally loyal to him:

_Natalia._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, each and every one of you, for making it with me to the end of this story. I know it was a big commitment, so – truly. I would not be here if it weren't for you guys. All of the artists I commissioned have read the story, which is so special to me. And of course a huge thank you to the artists who drew fan art, which was a dream come true! And once again, to my beta reader (maybe a little more impressive here at the end when you see all she had to deal with lol.) This final draft would not be possible without her incredible dedication.
> 
> For those of you who don't know, you can continue following the DITR universe in the sequel, [Око за Око](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/10994052/1/O%D0%BA%D0%BE-%D0%B7%D0%B0-O%D0%BA%D0%BE-Eye-for-an-Eye). I started writing it before I finished DITR, and I'm now working on piecing together more plot points, character arcs, and historical research. Until then... I'll see you in another story :)


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